


Wind of Change

by Kheper



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood and Violence, Cousin Incest, Crack Relationships, Crimes & Criminals, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Issues, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Uzumaki Naruto is a Good Friend, Verbal Abuse, shikamaru is also a good friend why is this not a canonical tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kheper/pseuds/Kheper
Summary: Gaara has just transferred to Konoha. As a reserved, solitary, introverted and friendless boy, he will have to face his last year of high school - as well as many unexpected developments - starting with private lessons under the enigmatic Itachi Uchiha.Criminal organizations, underground fights, hidden lives, tormented love stories, unknown feelings, and a wind of change that will overwhelm everyone.[A translation by betta_100][Tags, relationships and characters will be added as the story progresses]
Relationships: Deidara/Hidan (Naruto), Gaara & Kankurou & Temari, Gaara & Nara Shikamaru, Gaara & Temari (Naruto), Gaara & Uzumaki Naruto, Gaara/Hidan (Naruto), Gaara/Uchiha Itachi, Nara Shikamaru & Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Itachi/Uchiha Shisui, Uchiha Itachi/Yamanaka Ino, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto
Comments: 16
Kudos: 15





	1. Wind of Change

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Wind of change](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/740577) by Kheper. 



> Kheper’s notes (elements in brackets are added by the translator):  
> (11/02/2017)  
>  _What happens when two sick minds who love good writing and music, are cynical, religiously follow angst and drama unite to create a story? The answer is what you’ll be reading now.  
>  We are Happy_Pumpkin and Sunako, veteran authors on EFP _(name of the original site) _who decided to brush up on our writing and create something to our liking and that can make us have fun. It’s a story that slipped away from our control and our initial ideas of a brief and simple narrative that became a monumental work full of characters, events and plot twists. We’re talkative and like to write a lot, so the chapters will be lengthy and all our characters’ introspections, adventures, and everything else that happens to them is not random, instead everything is well thought out and serves their own purpose.  
>  Don’t expect SasuNaru like the rain since we’ll focus on many other characters as well, but if you have the passion, desire and patience to follow us on this slightly crazy experiment, then we’ll assure you that you won’t regret it!  
> The story is set in Japan, so the habits, juridical and academic system etc. are Japanese, but we’ve decided to keep the imaginary cities of Konoha and Suna instead of real cities.  
> Happy reading._
> 
> betta_100’s notes:  
> (14/01/2021)  
> Hello reader! Just a few things before leaving you to the story.  
> My name is Elisabetta and I’m the translator of “Wind of Change” from Italian to English. I’m sharing this account with the two lovely authors of the original story (who both go by Kheper on AO3), but you can also find me here: [betta_100](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betta_100). I’ll probably use my personal account to answer any potential questions to avoid confusion, so don’t hesitate to give feedback! Kheper’s writing style is rather unique and difficult to translate but I hope everything’s clear enough and that you enjoy the story as much as I did. So buckle your seatbelts 'cuz this is gonna be a looong ride!  
> Happy reading!

Car horns, traffic, pedestrians running here and there. Nothing but the usual flux of people who constantly worry about finding their own place in the world, asserting themselves over others and finding the meaning of their own miserable existence in the most disparate things: in someone else, in their job, in sex, or simply in the blooming of a flower with morning dew on its leaves. Ordinary things that nevertheless went too frequently unnoticed in the hysteria of everyday life, with time flowing inexorably and never coming back.

All this flux of life, identical in every place of the world yet currently unfamiliar, was observed by a new pair of indifferent eyes.

Sabaku no Gaara, recently transferred to Konoha from the smaller and more provincial Suna, was desperately trying to find a meaning. A meaning to his life, to the muddled mass of cumbersome feelings he constantly carries with himself. But for now, he'll make do with just understanding the meaning of those intricate roads that all looked the same to him, especially because of those goddamned cherry blossoms that seemed to be everywhere.

He’d just arrived a few days ago, fair enough, but those roads looked like they were designed by a sadistic and insane architect: there was no logical sense in the arrangement of the neighborhoods.

It was Sunday, the last day of rest before being hurled in the chaos of a new school, new faces and same old shit, and Gaara didn’t know how or where to pass the time. He simply meandered around the residential area where he and his family moved to and observed people without actual interest, trying not to get lost, although he believed he already did: he didn’t remember seeing those shops or those houses…

 _Perfect_ , he thought as he continued to roam aimlessly.

He caught sight of a grocery store at a distance, one of those that were open 24/7 at the disposal of the unambitious demands of local residents. He shrugged and decided to enter and buy something to drink, just to quench that annoying hint of thirst that would’ve continued to torment him in those warm spring days.

He smiled, noticing several plastic chairs outside on which some old ladies sat and contemplated life passing in their forever monotonous days. And that Sunday Gaara decided that for once, he would’ve also been old: he bought a can of artificial tea and sat down in isolation, contemplating the road for a while, absorbing its details that still seemed distant.

Eventually his phone vibrated. A single vibration that someone else would’ve probably missed, but not Gaara. Firstly, only a few people would message him; secondly, the neighborhood wasn’t exactly loud enough to distract him.

He unlocked the screen and noticed that his precise, authoritarian and falsely modern father had sent him a reminder via email: a calendar. The calendar that he would have to strictly follow until the end of the academic year, starting from the first day of school tomorrow. With only one goal, however, just like how only one day was needed to achieve it: pass the admission exams to enroll in university.

 _Great_ , Gaara thought as he chugged his last mouthful of tea. Never had his life been so “falsely” his.

Third child and with a troubled family history on his shoulders, ever since Gaara remembered, he’d always let himself surrender to the current, trying to fit in the role that others have decided for him. In the role of the difficult, introverted, sometimes violent boy, someone unable to distinguish good from bad and who had to be repressed. Sometimes his role would change with the others’ convenience, but fundamentally it remained the same. And Gaara, on the threshold of his eighteen years, felt increasingly suffocated.

There was a certain degree of truth in what the others thought of him, but there were also reasons for his behavior: Gaara was not allowed to seize opportunities and new possibilities to change, but he had to keep walking on prearranged tracks.

So now he was confused, unhappy, and a lot of other things that he didn’t even understand or know he could feel, being so inept at engaging with other people and not really having anyone he could talk to or relate to. That was why he still hasn’t protested despite he disliked his life. However, he would occasionally throw furious fits when he would arrive at his limits. He’d then even do reckless things like destroying everything he could find or not returning home for days: actions that increasingly made him the enemy of the family.

And now because of his father’s job, they even had to move to that nauseating city right in the last year of his studies, the year when students would have mental breakdowns due to exams and university admissions, although admittedly Gaara wasn’t all that interested in them anyway. Actually, he didn’t care about almost anything at all. He just wanted to be left alone when his father was the only one who cared about his studies. As much as he wasn’t loved and was considered reckless, Gaara was still Rasa’s son and as such he had to excel. Because of this, Gaara wasn’t weirded out when he found private lessons included in his schedules.

“To hell with those fucking private lessons!” he muttered, locking his screen and thinking that he should at least try and negotiate with his father, seeing how he couldn’t give a damn about attending those lessons, nor enrolling in the best university of Japan. The best, the worst… It didn’t matter to him, just like he didn’t care about anything else.

He stood up in sudden rage, throwing his crushed can in the bin. He dunked his cell phone in the pocket of his pants and entered the store one last time before leaving. That night, like every other night, he didn’t want to eat with his family.

He grabbed a cup of instant ramen, the artificial ones like the tea he’d consumed: in a fake life like his, it made sense to eat fake food too. He brusquely placed the miserable cup that was as sad as his day on the counter, while the slightly sloppy but kind cashier, who was also probably the owner of the small shop, offered him a plastic bag.

Meanwhile the television behind him, almost as run-down as the woman, was showing images, cinematic frames, sounds of what was happening in the world and in the city Gaara found himself in. A journalist praised the altruistic and generous spirit of someone who apparently offered big money to a charity auction, although Gaara didn’t grasp its name.

Suspicious and slightly incredulous, Gaara inspected the screen, discovering that those sugary praises were dedicated to none other than one of the most influential families of businessmen: the Uchiha. And, as Gaara will discover in time at his own expense, also one of the richest and most powerful families of the State.

Back then he smiled, a distant and apathetic smile.

The woman glanced at him in turn, handing him his miserable ration of food before asking with feigned concern, “Is everything alright?”

Gaara didn’t respond. He paid, took his bag and left that place along with the odor of stuffy rooms, expired cabbage and the smell of old people who wear themselves out by watching other people’s existence go by.

He returned home, cursing everything that was “home” to him. Because from the next day, his life lessons, academic lessons and private lessons will be held not by an ordinary and anonymous person like himself, but by the brightest star of that city polluted by smog and gossip: Itachi, genius firstborn of the Uchiha family.

“Gaara, is that you?” he heard a feminine voice ask after he’d entered, his sister to be exact.

“Who else?” Gaara muttered reluctantly, watching her come out of the kitchen and approach the foyer.

“I thought you'd run away again. You pass days pretending not to exist. Or actually, not to exist in our lives.” She glared at him, crossing her athletic arms.

“I exist to _you_ , perhaps,” Gaara replied laconically. His sister was the only one trying to engage with him somehow, even though she was struggling with her own life. After all, he definitely wasn’t the only one to have problems in that family. “I’m going back to my room. I have to finish emptying my boxes.”

Temari, sighing, watched her brother leave: she recognized his small back, his coppery hair that was impossible to tame, his pale arms perennially covered in long-sleeved shirts holding a gross plastic bag as if it were the only truly important thing.

As a precaution, she warned before letting him go as always, “Gaara, don’t worry about those private lessons too much. Just attend them and end of story. Our father is a lawyer. An arrogant asshole, but still a lawyer. And he’s offering his ass to the Uchiha to let you meet Itachi.” She smiled, proud of her sometimes explicit language. “And that upper class bastard can in turn let you meet people who really matter. When you’ll also be a lawyer, you can send everyone to hell, but until then… just bear with it, bear with it and don’t be a pain in the ass.”

Gaara smirked.

“Tem, if our father likes offering his ass to the Uchiha, I don’t see why _I_ have to like it. Nobody asked him to do shit! And I don’t give a fuck about private lessons, school, university, being a lawyer or any other goddamned white-collar worker! I’ll never be like him!” he said, halting in the middle of the stairs because of his sister’s lecture.

He turned to look at her from head to toe, feeling something pulsating in his gut, something scratching underneath his skin that tried to escape, and… Gaara didn’t even know what exactly it wanted, but destroying those walls that surrounded him could be a good guess.

Temari, who had little or no patience, bit her lip and restrained herself before hitting her neurotic brother on the head. On the one hand she wanted to protect Gaara from their family’s absurd expectations, but on the other she hated him, because he couldn’t understand how fortunate he was in his colossal misfortune. Temari wasn’t granted anything. She was even forced to drop out of the art academy she’d chosen after high school because her father had feared that, even in an apparently innocuous way, she would’ve been capable of becoming independent, and that wasn’t the plan he had in mind.

“At least you can dream, bro. You don’t have to limit yourself to wait for the right husband who’s rigorously chosen from your father’s ad-hoc formulas, wait to be impregnated like the darkest heir-producing machines and live on the income that you’ve never worked for. Now get lost, before I hit you on the head again.”

She didn’t want to hear anything else or look at those cold, aqua green eyes. At least this time they would’ve opened wide for a while, just to show Gaara’s realization in having been a bit of an asshole. She put on her earphones, switched on her MP3 and ran outside, far away and deaf to the world’s noise.

Gaara froze and stiffened on the stairs, spasmodically tightening his grip on the bag in his hand. His sister’s words had hurt him. The problem was that he was frequently hurt by other people’s words, but he would never show it, remaining stupidly impassive instead. The truth was that his feelings would reach the surface so faintly that one could notice some small changes only if they observed him attentively, like his lips that would become thinner as they tighten, his marginally furrowed eyebrows and his eyes veiled in tears, just like in that moment. Gaara shook himself and went back to his room, certain that nobody else was at home: if there was, he would’ve definitely gone out again. He threw the bag in a corner, letting himself fall on the bed limply.

Those words had hurt him deeply, and for the umpteenth time they made him ruminate on the queries his life rotated around _._

_If I were never born, and if my mother hadn’t died giving birth to me, would my family be normal and happy? Would my siblings be loved? And would all my suffering be spared?_

Gaara asked himself, sinking his head in the pillow with his earphones plugged in and the music at an excessive volume, in an attempt to drown out the destabilizing noise of his thoughts.

***

“Hey, they’re talking about you on tv again… Aren’t you tired of always monopolizing the attention, huh Itachi?” Sai, a pale boy with a fake smirk, remarked as he sipped a drink like the others and distractingly watched the TV of the bar they were in.

“Sai, how rude of you!” Ino reprimanded, furrowing her perfectly arched eyebrows and scowling at the boy. “Honey, don’t mind him… I don’t even know why we keep hanging out with him.” She sighed dramatically.

Itachi crossed his legs with a soft movement, his tapered fingers intersecting together and his elbows elegantly propping on the armrest. The truth was that he liked Sai’s presence: behind the fakest smile of the world were the realest words he could hear.

Because in a universe of courteous lies, Sai was the only one who didn’t worry about saying things as they were, with a feigned arrogance that was typical of him.

Obviously, the Uchiha’s firstborn wouldn’t have wasted even a fraction of his time to explain his reasons to Ino, his dazzling yet airily superficial girlfriend. He glanced at her for an instant, with the attention he would pay to a white painting on a white wall. Observant, he noticed her perfectly blonde hair of who’d just been to the hairdresser’s, her manicured hands of who didn’t have to work or do house chores, her dazzling teeth of who controlled their vices and her marvelous body of who had time for themselves.

Eventually he leaned forward to take his iced and simple-colored cocktail, exactly like how he had to appear. A wave of straight, black hair slid forward; a silent waterfall covering his shoulder lined with a jacket of high fashion.

“For better or worse, what’s important is that they talk about it, as they say.” Itachi swayed his glass, gelid droplets splashing on his fingers. “And we’re doing what we can for the better, despite everything.”

He drank and met a pair of black, deep and impassive eyes as well as those full of expectations of his girlfriend. Undoubtedly beautiful, but empty inside like one of those Christmas presents that were decorated for show and contained nothing but air.

 _And it’s okay_ , Itachi thought in a cold and calculating manner, _it’s one less problem to think about_.

His relationship with Ino was simple: sometimes give her sensual consideration, other times gift her with something expensive – proportionate with the love he had to show her –, and finally fuck her, fuck her like she was the only creature on the face of the Earth worthy of touching him.

 _And indeed_ , Itachi thought with a dangerously disturbing smile, _at least that’s what it seems like on the outside._

“Well, that is also an effective strategy,” Sai thoughtfully agreed.

“Ino is right though,” another cheerful voice intervened, barely holding in a chuckle. “You’re rude! You can’t just speak to Itachi. Even though I always call Sasuke a bastard, he’s also an Uchiha,” Naruto said, finally bursting into laughter and eyeing his friend, the second child of that family.

Sasuke, on the other hand, seemed rather irritated. It was unknown whether it was due to Sai’s words, Naruto’s words or if he was simply pissed off because his brother had to be involved even when he was hanging out with his friends. He cursed the day in which the Uchiha and Yamanaka family decided on that arranged engagement. A real drag.

“Naruto, you’re as funny as a handful of sand in the underwear, really…” Sakura sighed, eyeing his friend in a slightly disgusted way and sipping her fruit juice from a straw.

Itachi shifted his gaze on Naruto, who was invasive, cheerful, chaotic, and blond in an almost embarrassing manner. A breath of fresh air for the Uchiha, who were a dark crypt in contrast, innately and socially conditioned to be reserved. But that was fine, since Itachi was the one who had to handle this whole façade first.

“Say,” Sai interjected in an extraordinarily indifferent voice. “Who will be the lucky student aiming for the Uchiha’s generosity this year?”

“You change them like you change your underwear,” Naruto joked, gulping down the last mouthful of his much more rustic beer.

Itachi did not intend to say anything more than necessary. It was already a burden having to tutor someone unfamiliar and who, in the beginning at least, would not be of any use to him. But he certainly did not plan to expose himself too much and go into detail.

“He’s the son of a lawyer, nothing too difficult. We’ll study together,” he listed in a smooth but emotionless voice. “I’ll introduce him to some formal party just to make him get to know people of his future circle and talk to him about university and its expectations.”

The usual, reassuring program. And in the future, when his student would mature, perhaps he would even bring some benefits. A lawyer, especially if shaped into the Uchiha’s mentality, would always be convenient – a lawyer and… a man.

“Oh, come on! We don’t see each other often as it is, we’ll have even less time for us now,” Ino complained. Itachi was in fact buried with work in the family company, the Uchiha Corp., while she was still a high school student. This meant that they could only see each other on Sundays, and sometimes, but rarely, a couple hours in the weekdays. They were always too few for her tastes.

“At least you get to date him…” Sakura murmured to herself inaudibly, furtively glancing at Sasuke.

Everyone in the room had someone unreachable to them: Sakura wanted Sasuke, too blind and distracted to notice her; Naruto, in turn, just desired. Everyone, in their own ways, chased after something or someone, except for two people who were paradoxically the closest ones: Ino, because she was already possessing the object of her desires, though it flowed away like water through her fingers; and Itachi who, on the other hand, possessed Ino but would’ve gladly not possessed anything, absolutely nothing.

Yet that was life, made of things that are had, are desired and are thrown away. And in that moment, Ino represented all three of them.

Then, Itachi stood up. Smooth, light, silent in his movements and without having to utter a word, he held his girlfriend’s hand. He invited her to stand up as she ogled him with those big eyes full of desire and triumph, then whispered in her ear, “Then let’s get out of here. The next hours, the night, the steps that we take… They’ll all be ours, only ours.”

And he knew that Ino was his. Completely, devotedly his. Because… yes, because that was also part of Itachi’s life and that was how he had to act.

“Well, what now?” Naruto asked as he observed those two leaving, lost in themselves. “Should we go bowling or something?”

“I’m going home. School starts tomorrow, did you perhaps forget?” Sakura replied.

Unbeatable in his optimism and grateful for the friends he had, Naruto chuckled as he waved a hand in reassurance.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, it’ll just be a peaceful night with friends. And who knows when we’ll be able to see Sai again? He’s going to the most exclusive art academy after all, unlike us who are still in that lame as fuck high school! Maybe then even Mister I-am-too-cool-to-have-fun Sasuke will have a good laugh. Or maybe he’ll be a total bore, seeing his unprecedented heaviness tonight.”

How Naruto could come up with new derogatory remarks to define the untarnished Sasuke, well… that remained a mystery. But they would always achieve the desired effect, because they pushed the much more composed second-born of the Uchiha to crumble his wall of seriousness and concede himself the luxury to childishly reproach his friend.

“Idiot, if you continue with these pitiful jokes how am I supposed to laugh?” Sasuke in fact retaliated, more relaxed now.

The others burst out laughing because obviously Naruto felt obliged to retort and they continued that way, even as they headed towards the bowling alley.


	2. The Sound of Silence

Ishikawa High was a private school of outstanding levels, similar to many others only at first glance: with a wide schoolyard welcoming large crowds of students before they entered the building, large glass walls and gyms utilized by numerous sports clubs for various physical activities; the roof, spacious and able to offer a splendid view of the entire city, was usually the place of escape during breaks and sometimes in the middle of a particularly unpleasant lesson; the windows in turn revealed corridors, lockers and classes full of vitality and movement.

Everyone, from teachers to students, were part of this immense group called _School_. This well-organized group moved together, just like how different body parts strived to make the system work. The feet carried the whole structure; the legs allowed the body to move, run and jump; the hips connected the bust with the lower body; the arms and the hands grabbed and hugged; finally the head was what coordinated everything.

In particular, the head of Ishikawa High was a woman: Tsunade Senju, who’d been its principal for ten years already. She supervised everyone from above, and often some students have never even met her face to face during the entire duration of their studies, yet she was aware of everything: she knew who were the tardy or punctual students, the deserters, and the mommy’s kid who would always be accompanied by their parents. Just like every beginning of spring, she couldn’t ignore the flooded river of young pupils from the glass wall of her office, discovering newcomers and remembering those who were already heading towards the much tougher road of university.

By now, she had encountered almost every type of student: from boys with bangs arriving at their nose to girls with short skirts and knee-highs, not forgetting the thugs who absolutely did not want to hear about wearing tidy shirts to school.

But never in her honorable career did she believe she would’ve found the strangest, most extraordinary and unusual boy even to her expert standards during the opening ceremony: hair so red they could attract the attention of a rock, pale and apathetic face, stiff walking stance of someone whose life was a bed of nails. She promised herself to keep an eye on the new boy and check how he would blend in, or ensure that he won’t cause problems to other students. She always checked on everyone and everything, hurried to help struggling students and prevented problems. Although her presence was invisible to most of the alumni, she always watched over them like a respectable leader.

The redhead principal Tsunade identified was none other than Sabaku no Gaara. The boy was in fact walking on the path leading to the school gates, trying to calm his furious heartbeat. He could feel the others’ gaze upon him and he tried not to let it get to him, though it was a difficult task since he was aware of being judged because of his appearance.

 _Of all the things my foreign mother could pass on to me, did she_ have _to give me her red hair and pale eyes?_ he wondered for the umpteenth time.

He entered in what looked more like a trendy building designed by a fashionable architect rather than a school, with all those glass walls and clean, sterile air, as well as the enormous and well-tended garden, full of those cherry blossoms that he hated so much. But… hey, that was a private school full of super moneybags, and his father definitely outdid himself that time.

 _He’s investing a lot on me_ , Gaara thought as his face darkened and scowled. Now he definitely won’t be able to avoid those private lessons that he hated with all his might.

He didn’t know where to go but followed the crowd which apparently was heading towards the auditorium for the new academic year’s opening ceremony.

 _An auditorium that looks more like a luxurious conference hall_ , the boy ascertained with a small sigh, feeling even more uncomfortable and possibly stiffening his back even more as he sat on an empty chair in one of the last rows. He finally raised his gaze and observed some students nearby as they chatted incessantly. Surely they were familiar with almost everyone since they all came from a specific background.

 _And as always I’m the usual fish out of water_ , Gaara thought as he observed a blonde woman walking on stage and asking for silence in the hall.

Despite his frigid relationship with the opposite sex and his embarrassment, Gaara couldn’t help but notice her prosperous breasts that couldn’t be hidden in the tight but elegant black sheath dress. Her blonde hair was tied in a practical and tidy ponytail and, despite her sophisticated dress, she seemed determined and much more easy-going than she looked because of her gestures and her stance.

“Boys and girls, thank you for coming here, for the silence you’ve now granted us and for attending the inevitable yet fundamental ceremony of the new academic year.”

There was a generic and not too motivated applause just for basic respect for the tradition, and eventually the principal proceeded, “I would like to welcome all our newcomers as well as our returning students. May this be a splendid year.” Another round of applause, smiles, exchanged glances. “I don’t have much else to add if not the usual recommendations and warnings. For the rest, I’ll give the floor to my colleagues who wish to give some advice about their courses, updates and modifications of the after-school clubs. Nevertheless, remember: do not stray from the rules and at the very least, come to school with respect to yourselves, to your classmates and to your teachers. Otherwise I’ll get mad, and you won’t like seeing me angry.”

She smiled with a subtly threatening aura.

“I can confirm!” A loud and shrill voice could be heard from the middle of the students’ crowd.

Gaara stretched his neck and discerned a blond boy a couple of rows in front of him who was snickering and nudging another student beside him. Gaara was perplexed as he watched him. Normally these ceremonies were a total bore, and a religious silence would prevail. He couldn’t understand if that boy was brave or simply a fool, seeing how the principal had squinted her eyes shooting daggers at him and had furrowed her brows as she reprimanded him. However, it seemed to be an almost normal occurrence, seeing how all the teachers looked calm and exchanged a few smiles or shook their head amusedly, or at least it seemed that way to Gaara. He then started listening to them talking about their courses again, and the torture ended only after an interminable half an hour.

The biggest problem only happened now, however: find his class, introduce himself and socialize… Of course, it shouldn’t be a problem to _him,_ the king of cheerfulness and empathy!

Gaara left the auditorium with his head still lowered, hearing other people laughing and chatting confidently, envying and hating them at the same time. Following the mass again, he found the poster where all the classes were indicated and, with a bit of effort due to the crowd, managed to find his own. Slowly, he began walking. He wasn’t in a hurry, nor did he want to reach his class. In fact, he tried to postpone that moment as much as possible.

Unfortunately and too soon for his tastes, he found himself in the corridor of the last floor, and with each step he could hear the thunderous echo of his own heartbeat. With the slowness of a criminal heading to the gallows, he proceeded until he halted in front of class 3B’s semi-closed door. He gulped and, through his thin mouth, marginally inhaled some air that was as invisible as he wanted to be in that moment, then gently pushed the door that opened lazily.

Some people had already arrived, but the class wasn’t full yet. Gaara was happy about that: fewer gazes and fewer looks that would examine him from head to toe.

Sartre claimed that we are judged by everyone as soon as we enter a room, no-one excluded. And it was impossible to avoid, it simply happened and that was it: one needed to learn to accept it.

Gaara appeared apathetic and indifferent to the world with his blunt demeanor, but that was only a façade, or maybe an armor, despite a small being, which was his primordial fear of judgement, lay underneath. He despised it when people assumed things about him since people were often unable to think properly and would never understand anything about his behavior.

The French philosopher also argued that fainting was the body’s self-defense mechanism in critical moments.

“Hey Head, something’s not right, we’re going nuts,” Body would say. “The situation is getting out of hand. Okay Head, I get it, you don’t really know what the fuck to do: alright, I’ll handle it. We’ll pull the plug for a few minutes, that way you won’t have to think. You can take a break and nobody’s going to expect anything from you anymore.”

A pity that, _no_ , Gaara could absolutely not pull the plug.

He would simply have to pretend that nobody else existed and he, in turn, would disappear. Wonderful.

He located a desk near the wall and sat down, shutting himself in his shell as he waited for his classmates to gradually pour into the classroom and for the first day to end as soon as possible.

Obviously, his entry hadn’t gone unnoticed since he hadn’t greeted anyone, nor introduced himself, which surprised his few classmates. Even those who arrived later noticed him immediately. After all, a mass of hair like his would even stand out in the dark, not to mention his stiff stance surrounded by an intimidating aura, as if he were covered by a spiked armor that held everyone at a safe distance.

 _He’s definitely a thug, but a rich one since he’s attending this school_ , almost everyone thought, definitely including Ino as soon as she entered the classroom. After all, she was used to Itachi’s frigid impeccability.

“Hey, could he be a yakuza’s son? I bet he even has tattoos. Is that why he’s still wearing that long-sleeved jacket even though it’s hot?” she whispered to her friend Sakura, so enthusiastic about her delusional fantasies that she’d already built the imaginative yet incredible story of his life.

Sakura shook herself and replied after a moment, “Could be. Or maybe he’s a sociopath who cuts himself to feel pain.” She chuckled, then bit her lip hoping that it wasn’t actually true. But the world was full of mentally disturbed people, and Sakura herself could say she knew a considerable quantity of them.

Ino perked up at those words, having new scenarios for her fantasies at her disposal, and continued to chat with Sakura as they went to sit in the second row.

A boy, who was behind them and had heard everything, surpassed them with a sigh and went to sit in the only empty seat near the newcomer. He then began staring at the ceiling as if he were the guardian of some mysterious secret, isolating himself from the surrounding chatter.

The ruckus continued for at least another dozen minutes until someone who looked like a teacher entered the classroom: he was tall and burly and would’ve probably been more at ease in a rugby pitch instead of a classroom with suit and tie. He didn’t really match the image of a typical teacher, not only due to the beard that covered his face, but also because of the toothpick he carried in the corner of his mouth and that he placed on his desk after he sat down. He looked calm, but it only took him one, quiet word for the silence to reign.

 _Apparently, he isn’t as easy-going as he wants to appear_ , Gaara reflected as he heard the teacher apologize for his delay and leaf through the class register.

“Well, well… Apparently we have a new student… Sabaku no Gaara,” he said more to himself than to the class, then raised his gaze to stare at him. “I am Asuma Sarutobi, your Japanese teacher. Could you please introduce yourself to the class?” he asked as he made one of the boy’s nightmares come true: Gaara simply wanted to go as unnoticed and hidden as possible, definitely not stand up and make a speech!

But he couldn’t avoid it, just like how he couldn’t avoid following his family to this utterly disgusting city, and how he could never make any choice on his own, not even on his future.

He stood up slowly, as stiff as a rod, and without raising his gaze too much he began in a low and monotonous voice, “I am Sabaku no Gaara and I’ve arrived here a few days ago, I hope to get on well here…” he concluded before sitting down as fast as he stood up, telling himself that he said enough. He definitely did not intend to start telling what he liked and disliked or what his hobbies were, also because he didn’t believe he actually liked anything or was interested in any activity.

“Hey, you could almost rival me in saving your breath,” mumbled the boy next to him with absurd, messy, ruffled black hair and a face that should’ve showed a lazy smile but seemed more like a smirk.

Gaara quietly stared at him for an instant, unsure if his observation actually required some form of reply.

When he chose to stay silent, surprisingly his absurd interlocutor added with a sigh, “Anyway nice to meet you Gaara, I’m Shikamaru.” He extended his hand and clarified, “You won’t invade my space and I won’t invade yours. I guess we can find a perfect balance for the rest of the year this way. Are we good?”

Surprised but not showing it, Gaara nodded, shaking Shikamaru’s hand.

“Perfect.”

Then they returned to mutually ignore each other, both of them grateful for not having to sit next to an intrusive, nosey or chatty classmate. They still didn’t know that an empathy and support they could hardly find in other people would be born in the coming months from those silences, and this would save them both in different ways.

The next hours passed by slowly and uncertainly and, luckily for Gaara, none of the other professors asked him to introduce himself anymore. Perhaps Mr. Sarutobi had told them about him, or maybe they didn’t want to have anything to do with a boy that seemed problematic at first glance. Said boy tried to isolate himself as much as possible, not caring about following the lessons or repeating another year. Until then, he’d been a more or less diligent student, but their move to Konoha and his father’s absurd attention on him did not sit well with him.

When Rasa's second son Kankuro was in his last year of high school, he didn’t manage to receive such an opportunity, but now that he did, he was dealing with the wrong son. He had to settle for it and spur the youngest instead, something the boy could not tolerate.

During those long hours, Gaara wondered what he should do in the future. In the end, he believed he shouldn’t do anything: let himself be carried by the current, just as he was doing until now, would be fine. He would just let everything slide on him and put zero effort into it – he was an expert in that –, otherwise he would’ve already gone crazy and ended up with a shattered heart a long time ago… Not that he could be considered entirely normal even now.

A feeble curve of his lips crept up his face. For the first time in his life, he would go against his parent and succeed by simply doing nothing and still being himself, a seemingly empty shell that everyone – first and foremost his father – had contributed to create.

That incredibly long day was finally ending, but as he distractingly listened to his teacher’s words, he frowned.

“Mandatory afterschool club?” he asked the boy next to him, as always limiting his words to the bare minimum and hoping that he’d been mistaken as he was distracted.

Shikamaru raised an eyebrow, surprised that the boy next to him actually had the gift of speech, and explained, “Yep, it works like that. You choose a club and participate in its activities. Usually there’s a school festival at the end of term where after-school clubs compete with each other to show off.”

He could’ve added that he was part of a club and that he was even its president, but dragging others in his business was definitely not his cup of tea. Luckily that was Naruto’s job since he had enough talkativeness and enthusiasm to even involve walls. Sure, initially it seemed a punishment to have that hotheaded Uzumaki trying to understand the basic rules of chess, but then, little by little, Shikamaru became used to it and, although he’d never admit it, the thought that sooner or later Naruto would return to his own club saddened him a bit. He smiled, wondering what had pushed that empty head, who loved playing basketball instead, to dedicate himself to chess.

When Naruto sprained his ankle while training with his team, he’d also probably undergone some form of concussion that left him with an irreversible stupidity.

Just as Shikamaru was immersed in his thoughts, and believing that Gaara’s interest ceased, the latter’s question suddenly materialized instead, “Is there any way for those who have extra lessons in the afternoon to avoid it?” he asked, distressed, though on the outside he seemed more pissed off than anything.

Gaara really didn’t need this additional hindrance, and he hoped those goddamned private lessons could at least help him avoid joining a club: just the idea of staying with strangers made him miserable.

Shikamaru stared at him for a moment, for the first time in his life empathizing with a perfect stranger who he felt he could comprehend much more than his many other friends.

In the end, without reflecting – which was also rare –, he blurted out, “I’m the president of the chess club. We don’t talk much and everyone minds their own business. It won’t solve your problem, but you can already consider it an excellent compromise. Then again, do what you want.”

He shrugged. He’d done his social duty of the day.

Gaara pressed his lips, carefully reflecting on that proposal. It was the first time he’d received one. Nobody had ever asked him to join a club in his previous schools, not even in primary school where he’d fervently wished for it in an attempt to make some friends, but he was too shy and awkward to step up for himself then. As time went by, he became more and more isolated and solitary, conditions he’d grown accustomed to.

And what should he do now? Apparently, it was mandatory in that cursed school. Perhaps he could sign up and then not show up, it wasn't like they would check club attendance, right? No… Gaara really hoped not, although everything there seemed to be conspiring against him, so those crazy professors definitely had some way to check on them. But perhaps what Shikamaru had told him was true. If they really didn’t talk much, it could also work.

“How… how does one sign up?” Gaara asked in a low voice, ashamed of having ignored something so simple.

“I give you a form, you fill it in, then you hand it to the student service office and it’s done. Anyway, if you want to get a feel of the environment first, we’ll hold the first meeting of the year tomorrow. As in, we literally mutter two things and then everyone goes their own way, so nothing too demanding,” Shikamaru explained as best as he could. And with that, his personal record of dialogues had been amply broken.

The bell finally rang and with that, his social and academic duties ended as well.

Shikamaru stood up, not before adding, “Don’t feel obliged though, you can stop by if you want. Nobody will run after you to make you join.” _Except for Naruto_ , but he abstained from telling him that.

He bid his goodbye without waiting for a reply, which wouldn’t have arrived anyway, and left the classroom, followed by other students who overflowed beyond the door to escape like a river in flood.

Just like that, Gaara was finally left alone. In front of him and his free time awaited nothing else but the looming shadow of his private lessons. Afterwards he could officially hole up somewhere far away from the rest of the world, because he’s had enough for that tremendous day: of the world itself and all its goddamned inhabitants.

And it was for that reason, as he picked up his things with a gloomy expression, he discarded the idea to go to the canteen with everyone else. He used to go at his old schools, though not every day, as he preferred skipping lunch or eating chocolate bars from vending machines in exchange for some wonderful and refreshing silence.

 _There’s no way I’m going to eat today_ , he decided as he completely undid his already loosened tie and unceremoniously tucked it in his schoolbag. It would definitely crease, and Temari, as soon as she sees it, will give him a good telling-off and look at him disapprovingly. She was so careful with fashion and dressing well!

 _And if I have anything other than a tracksuit and a pair of jeans in my closet, it’s all thanks to her_ , Gaara thought as he left the classroom and attempted to enjoy the ephemeral freedom ahead of him. Being the first day, his school closed a few hours prior, but from the next day on his lessons and after-school activities would be held in the afternoon as well, and on Thursday he would have his first private lesson under the big shot of the Uchiha. Gaara’s stomach was in even tighter knots at that thought, making him mentally curse as he tried not to lose his way back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheper’s notes (translated):  
> (16/02/2017)  
>  _Surprise, we’re back with a quick update. Since the first chapters are more introductory and boring (if we want to put it that way), we’ll probably try to post a bit more frequently, but we’re not guaranteeing anything. The story is long and there are a lot of things to narrate XD  
>  We got to know Shikamaru who’s like, an absolute legend. As we made him appear in our story little by little, we realized how wonderful he is, the friend that you’d really like to have by your side. So we’ve already built an altar of gratitude for him, make sure you all do it too lol (we’ve also made another altar for a character that you still don’t know yet, but… we’ll get there really soon yeeeeee).  
> For compliments, opinions, insults and complaints… comment like there’s no tomorrow! We love u!_
> 
> betta_100’s notes:  
> (18/01/2021)  
> Shikamaru is the real mvp, 'nuff said


	3. Come Home

That Tuesday of spring was particularly sunny. There were mild breezes that barely shook the grass, the new leaves in the schoolyard, the meagre clouds in the sky and that caressed students’ uniforms.

Sasuke was among those who were grazed by the wind, just like Naruto beside him and other students who were walking out the school, each with their own thoughts, chatters, worries and smiles.

However, unlike many others, Sasuke didn’t care if it was sunny, raining or snowing… For him, days passed by identically, life and time advanced unstoppably. The truly important thing was to achieve his goals without being influenced by his surroundings. At least that was what he promised himself, but every time certain situations and, worse still, _people_ punctually managed to divert his objectives. With what mysterious force, he still did not understand. Unfortunately, he will comprehend that it was sheer and simple affection only in the coming months.

As proof of how Sasuke’s schedules had differed from his plans that day as well, there was Naruto who, cheerful, happy, and captivating like only a few others, was dragging him to a tedious meeting of an equally boring chess club. Not that Sasuke disliked the silence and indifference that reigned there, but in his regimented life, sport was the only thing that allowed him to break the mold without abandoning his mask of cold perfectionism.

“Is it true that it won’t last long?” Sasuke asked his friend, clasping his arm almost possessively.

He observed Naruto for a moment, waiting for an answer and mentally repeating to himself that he was only doing it for him, because this year Naruto would have to leave the basketball club for a while, and Sasuke knew how, behind his smiles and positivity that he spread like pollen, it actually angered him.

“Of course, of course, chill! There’s no way Shikamaru will prattle on for half an hour or anything like that. It would be surprising if he even talks for two minutes straight. I’ve never met anyone lazier than him… and I know what I’m talking about! I would really like to know how he managed to become president.” Naruto snickered, eyeing Sasuke’s pale, slender and elegantly shaped fingers anchored on the grey jacket of his uniform, happy for that seemingly casual contact even though he was aware it wasn’t so.

“What do you even have to do afterwards anyway?” Naruto continued to walk slowly due to his sprained ankle. “We don’t hold meetings at the basketball club since it practically never closes. It’s only the second day of school and we don’t have a lot to study yet. The least you can do is accompany me since you’ve never visited me there when I wanted to show the club to you!” he reprimanded the Uchiha good-naturedly.

Sasuke narrowly squinted his eyes, as if warning his friend not to go overboard.

“Naruto, not everyone has as much free time as you. I have a life to lead too,” he clarified almost in a whisper, which unfortunately didn’t sound as menacing as he wanted it to be. “I’m only here because _you_ were the one to ask me.”

Silence fell between them because despite everything, both of them felt the implicit weight of those words.

In the end, Naruto was the one to smile again, shrugging and reiterating once they arrived in front of the building, “Then I thank you for your noble sacrifice. I promise to repay my debt by returning in good shape again as soon as possible, making you win so many times you’re going to cry! Try to resist until then, yeah!”

The usual, modestly overdramatic one.

Sasuke shook his head, amused in spite of himself: it was impossible not to be, or be angry at that idiotic friend who was so confident, optimistic and cheerful like he will never be.

As they continued to talk about unimportant things, they went up the stairs to the third floor where the club was located. The classroom was rather dark despite the numerous windows, but Sasuke quickly understood that it was facing north, which was why it received little sunlight. He’d always been very interested in architecture, which allowed him to critically analyze the rest of the room. It was also very plain and not even too big, meaning that only losers would hang out there. In fact, the clubs of that school received different amounts of funds depending on their popularity.

Some tables were stacked one on top of the other in a corner, near a bookshelf where some chessboards and scant, miserable books stood. Apparently, nobody ever used those.

Sasuke cast a perplexed glance at his friend. Naruto must’ve really been out of his mind to claim that he liked and enjoyed staying there.

They approached the other five people in the room, and immediately Naruto started to talk in full flow while the others could only nod, unable to respond to that river of words.

“We’re all here, I think…” a boy interrupted. He must be the president, at least abiding by Naruto’s description of him. “Let’s start. We’re already late and I want to go home.” He sighed, glancing at the door as he did various times during the last few minutes. But he only began to say little else when the door silently opened and a student entered uncertainly with his head lowered, with the most absurd hair Sasuke’s ever seen. After murmuring an almost incomprehensible “Sorry”, he went to accommodate himself towards the back of the classroom, beyond Sasuke’s periphery.

Enquiring, the second son of the Uchiha scrutinized the newcomer, lingering on that expression that was at times pissed off at the world, other times painted with an annoyance of who simply wanted to disappear from the entire universe. Sasuke shook his head, sitting beside Naruto with his arms crossed, unsure if he felt more concerned because he ended up in a den of misfits or because he managed to describe himself rather than the newcomer.

After a few welcoming words, president Shikamaru placed himself in front of the meagre little group, ignoring the fact that the basketball star, also known as the son of one of the richest sponsors of the school, was also there. With his hands in his pockets, he announced evenly, “Guys, incredibly we have as many as two new members joining our club this year. You already know one well, namely Naruto who, as well as shattering his ankle, must’ve also hit his head because he decided to waste his time here with us after temporarily suspending basketball.” Naruto, on the other hand, smiled with gritted teeth, cursing Shikamaru’s commendable friendliness. “The other one, Gaara, has just arrived in this idyllic paradise called our school.”

A few moments passed in which everyone exchanged glances and uncertain smiles until the awkwardness was overcome because Shikamaru got back to talking again, just to specify the days of the week when they would meet, future scheduled meetings with other schools, and to mock the extraordinary funds they received to buy two clocks with timers that won’t stop ticking on their own.

A few rapid minutes later and to Sasuke’s surprise, the meeting ended. Minutes in which he observed the newcomer again, surprised at himself for that uneasiness he felt inside him, accompanied by the crazy idea that shortly, many things in his life would drastically change. In the end, he noticed the redhead darting past him and exiting the room first, as if there was toxic gas inside and he was suffocating to death. If that was how matters stood, he was lucky for only feeling that way in the classroom: to Sasuke it seemed he was living like that every day of his life, in any environment he found himself in.

“Come on, let’s go. I have things to do,” Sasuke told his friend as he decided to stand up, without being able to get that red-haired newcomer out of his mind.

He left with Naruto who, in thanks, helped him go and buy some books on specific subjects to read for the universities’ admission exam. They didn’t miss out on a final break in a café that was trendy among students, a small reward after what was, for Naruto, an Odyssey of papers and texts with unpronounceable titles. All in all, Sasuke didn’t mind taking a break and conceding himself a life like any other either, bantering with his teammate and sipping an absurd brew with a typical, slightly artificial aftertaste.

It was when Naruto took his leave that, with his new books in the bag and a full stomach, Sasuke realized he had to return home, between those domestic walls that felt little or not reassuring at all. He could’ve called one of his father’s drivers to accompany him home, but he preferred taking the metro and walking a bit, just to clear his mind and not talk to anyone before returning.

After recognizing the familiar automatic gates from afar, he halted in front of them, but they were already opening before he could announce his arrival.

 _Apparently_ , Sasuke thought as he eyed the cameras, _the video surveillance is doing its job._

Not that the risk of burglary or ill-intentioned trespassing would exist in that famous neighborhood of high level, as high as the housing price there, but an excellent safety network was needed due to the properties’ financial value.

Slowly, he treaded along the path that passed through what his family called a garden but was actually a park that only lacked a few deer and some other animals to be complete. He arrived at the front door and entered the sumptuous foyer where a large staircase of refined Italian marble reigned, with a sinuous and perfect spiral that not even Venus’ curves could compare to.

“Sasuke, is that you?” a calm and soft voice called from upstairs, and a few moments later Sasuke saw his mother come down the stairs gracefully and perfectly dressed.

“Hello mother,” he greeted, observing her and thinking that as always, she seemed too perfect and elegant to be human, characteristics she made sure only to pass on to her firstborn, at least in Sasuke’s twisted opinion.

The woman hinted at a smile, then hurried down the stairs to approach her son, scrutinizing him for an instant and announcing, “I’ll accompany your father to an important business dinner tonight. Sakamoto has already given instructions to the chef to prepare something to eat. Come down and take the food when you’re hungry.”

Sakamoto, the decades-long butler of the Uchiha family, true-blue and always efficient in satisfying whatever necessities his beloved employees had. He’d watched over Sasuke since his birth and known Itachi since he was a kid. Although the second child of the household would never openly admit it, he grew rather fond of the butler, appreciating his invisible, never invasive but palpable presence in moments of necessity, when he would appear with professional and elegant availability as always.

The boy only nodded so that Mikoto could proceed her descent. They didn’t exchange a kiss, nor any other affectionate gesture, but Sasuke wasn’t surprised by it. He wasn’t expecting any form of maternal love other than a distant smile. Emotiveness and filial attachment were weaknesses that needed to be banned in the twisted life of an Uchiha.

As Sasuke went upstairs, he secretly observed his mother from above as she was adjusting the last, useless details of her appearance: she was already perfect that way, but the Uchiha family’s motto was ‘Perfection does not exist’. It should’ve been a spur to always give their best, work hard, be ambitious and strive for the top in everything they do, but often it was a burden, a rock that was tied to the neck as one swam in that stormy sea called life.

Slowly, he reached his room and distractingly threw the books he bought on the desk before letting himself fall on the bed limply now that nobody could watch him. He closed his eyes and wandered in his memories of his first day of school. Unexpectedly, that absurd guy from the chess club resurfaced in his mind.

 _Who knows how in hell they enrolled him_ , he curiously thought. He then leisurely raised his eyelids and focalized on the room under the dying daylight that seeped in from the shutters, wondering where his brother was, and if he would, by chance, see him for dinner.

At that point, feeling slightly hungry and not having much else to do, Sasuke decided to stand up and head towards the dining room. As usual, he would collect his plate before shutting himself in his room to read, watch a movie or play with Naruto and some other mutual friends online. Anything to avoid the risk of interacting with a potential survivor of his family, magically free from mundane work that punctually emptied the house.

But that evening, that special yet stupid evening, things were destined to go a bit differently than usual.

Dressed in a tracksuit instead of his usual impeccable clothing, Sasuke went downstairs with music blasting in his ears at full volume. He entered the vast dining room containing a beautiful table of polished mahogany, upholstered chairs and crystals displayed in shelves of refined craftsmanship. And it was then that he halted, stuck between the desire to go forward and run away as far as possible.

Because he was not prepared to see, among everyone else, _him_ , his brother Itachi.

His loose black hair, a curtain of ink that seemed to pour from the quill impetuously, his piercing eyes fixed on a book, his pale arms propping on the table with a hand tightening around a glass of water. Sitting like that, without arrogance or pretension, with a simple t-shirt and equally simple pants on, Itachi Uchiha seemed almost human.

 _Almost_ , because despite the freedom with which Itachi was unusually behaving, he still maintained an air of superiority, as if that foolish and earthly world did not belong to him.

Sasuke observed him, stunned, hypnotized like a prey in front of a cobra, and Itachi didn’t even have to raise his gaze! It was a simple display of power that his brother had on others, and Sasuke wasn’t immune to it, quite the contrary… To Sasuke it was a struggle just to breathe in his presence, squeezed under Itachi’s and his father’s superiority, the latter never missing the opportunity to remind him of it, or better, throwing it back in his face. Sasuke’s only fault was to be born not as someone exceptional but simply ordinary. He hated Itachi for that, for the enormous disrespect towards him for being who he was. Yet, not too far away from that hatred, there was also a lot of admiration and affection for that cold and distant brother Sasuke’s always dreamed to reach and hold in his arms, not letting him slip away from his fingers, as he usually did when they were kids.

Perhaps he made some noise, or maybe Itachi simply had superpowers, but in any case, the latter raised his head and Sasuke wasn’t ready to withstand his gaze yet.

“Sasuke,” Itachi simply acknowledged, staring at him calmly. “I didn’t think you were home.”

Sasuke didn’t reply immediately but took out his earphones and shrugged. He pretended not to feel anything or notice the knots in his stomach as he absurdly attempted to create a calculated behavior that could rival Itachi’s.

“I didn’t think you were either,” he replied in a feeble voice, mentally calling himself stupid. Could he have given him a more banal response? And what even was that scared chick voice?

 _Maybe it’s better if I just shut up,_ Sasuke thought, unsure whether to take the plate and leave or stay there with him.

Itachi hinted at a smile, thinking that Sasuke probably felt pressured to show him how much he could be on his level, as if he actually had to stay on top of a chart to be with his brother.

But Itachi did not tell him any of that, instead he drank a mouthful of water and invited him, “Sit here for a minute if you’re not in a hurry. It’s been a while since we’ve talked.”

_Have we ever truly talked though?_

A thought that flashed in Sasuke’s mind as well, who slightly tilted his head, bending his thin neck and looking at Itachi with a pinch of surprise mixed with uncertainty. When they were younger, he’d always been the one to run after Itachi, asking for his time and attention, and the other to avoid him, until Sasuke matured enough to understand that it was useless to continue that way: Itachi would never be his… And now he was offering him a scrap of his precious time so easily? Incredible, it almost seemed like a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on the point of view.

“I’ll get the plate,” Sasuke said as he went to the kitchen with the intention to accommodate himself in front of Itachi, wondering what other extraordinary things would happen that evening.

Not that he was hungry anymore as he suddenly lost his appetite. He felt that, if he ate, he would lose the opportunity to look at Itachi, talk to him, listen to him and observe him, dedicating him his full attention, because he feared that such a moment would never happen again; a patch of space in their chaotic world.

What Sasuke couldn’t perceive however, despite his countless thoughts, was that his brother was actually already watching him. Itachi had observed him walking forward with his plate stiffly, like someone who was waiting to be judged, then sitting and playing with his chopsticks as if it wasn’t worth biting into the delicious food prepared for that evening.

The two brothers’ gazes eventually met and they both stayed silent, almost as if they had to gather oxygen before transforming it into words.

“This Thursday I’ll hold private lessons for that boy, the lawyer’s son. Apparently, he goes to your school too. Maybe you’ve already happened to meet him.”

As powerful as a pounding waterfall, Itachi’s words arrived directly and without any embellishments. So typical of him: when he had something to say, he never chose to sugarcoat his words with sweet lies that tasted a lot like mockery.

Sasuke widened his eyes at the news. He knew that his brother would have a ‘puppy’ to tame every year, but he wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon. He furrowed his dark brows irritatingly, remembering all the other boys that had come to the Uchiha household, the time that Itachi wasted with them and denied to Sasuke who had always yearned it, as well as the perennial annoyance in hearing his father praising the firstborn’s skills that allowed him to tutor others even when he was still in high school, thing that Sasuke was probably not able to do even if he’d never tried it. After all, that was an important task that Fugaku had assigned to the firstborn, the only one worthy of his trust, certainly not Sasuke.

After a few seconds, the real meaning of his brother’s words made its way among those twisted emotions. Sasuke then found himself scowling even more.

“He goes to my school? And what’s his name?” he asked, though he was sure the student definitely wasn’t one of his classmates.

Itachi hinted at a smile, elegantly crossing his legs as he propped an elbow on the armrest, then interrogated with a touch of malicious irony, “Why all the curiosity?” And added after a very brief pause, “But anyway, his name is Sabaku no Gaara.”

 _Great_ , Sasuke thought as he realized the immaturity of his thought even before elaborating it, _the fact he already remembers his student’s name and surname perfectly is a horrible start._

“You said he goes to my school, but…” Sasuke continued, straightening his shoulders and trying to let indifference reappear on his face, annoyed by the other’s smirk that seemed a lot like teasing. “I don’t think to know anyone who goes by that name. Maybe you’re mistaken and he doesn’t go to my school after all,” he concluded. His institute wasn’t enormous in fact, and everyone knew each other, even if not extensively.

As sudden as summer rain, Itachi exploded with a crystalline and almost dissonant laughter that made him appear tremendously distant between those walls.

And yet, despite everything, why did Sasuke believe he heard a note of melancholy underneath? He liked to think that, at the end of the day, laughter was also a beautiful and melodic instrument, but if used too infrequently like Itachi did, sometimes it had to be tuned to avoid it sounding off-key, like an old guitar that has been forgotten behind the door for too long.

“Me, mistaken?” Itachi repeated, curving his lips with the residue of his laughter. “It’s more likely that you, my brother, are the one to forget about people you’re not interested about, who correspond to about three quarters of the school.”

He crossed his arms, barely reclining his head. With that movement, a few strands of hair fell onto his shoulder: a river of chaos on a seemingly perfect body.

“Apparently it runs in the family,” Sasuke replied dryly, since empathy and philanthropy did not exactly flow in the Uchiha’s blood.

However, stung by his brother’s comment and reaction – who still looked at him with eyes twinkling with his previous laughter –, Sasuke tried to concentrate. Gaara was definitely not a common name, quite the opposite… Indeed, he seemed to have heard it already and, after a few moments, the classic lightbulb lit up in his head.

“Did he perhaps transfer here recently?” he asked.

If Itachi knew his name and surname so well, he should have other information on him too.

Amused by his brother’s interest, Itachi played his game. Deep down, it was a pleasant rarity for him to talk so casually with Sasuke as well.

“Yes, I suppose he still doesn’t know virtually anybody. But don’t worry,” he added with a hint of maliciousness, “Your privacy won’t be invaded. I’ll hold the lessons in the annex, and they’ll be rather short. Obviously, if you wish to get to know him better, you’re more than welcome. What goes beyond private lessons is not my concern.”

But Itachi already knew that Sasuke wouldn’t be acquainted with anyone else: he wasn’t interested, nor attracted to the idea of expanding his limited but loyal circle of friends. On the contrary, the others were usually the ones to look for him because, even though Sasuke didn’t believe it, he was an attractive person, capable of conquering people with his introverted self-confidence and brilliant intelligence. And, much better than Itachi, Sasuke knew how to keep friendships and surround himself with people who sincerely cared about him. That was why Itachi admired and envied Sasuke with brotherly affection, even though he wasn’t able to selfishly confess that to him.

Sasuke distractingly listened to his brother’s previous words. If he’d been more attentive, he would’ve definitely retorted on the subject of privacy since he wasn’t the one to sleep in the annex anyway! But his attention was hopelessly captured by his memories of that boy.

There was no way that half-assed redheaded punk, the manifestation of who resented the world, was the boy chosen by Fugaku Uchiha to join their caste! He had absolutely nothing that harmonized with them or their environment. Even his manners, for the short time Sasuke had seen him, didn’t exactly seem elegant or polite. Evidently, his father had never seen him in person, and everything had only been an agreement between parents… It would be really funny to observe Fugaku when he gets to know him. And it was this thought that made Sasuke burst out laughing, not being able to contain himself or avoid it in any way.

“You… you’ve never seen him, right?” he somehow managed to ask between his laughter.

If Itachi had met him, he definitely wouldn’t have been so calm.

Suspicious, Itachi narrowly squinted his eyes, stunned by both his brother’s reaction and his words. Generally, the average boy chosen by their demanding father was rather intelligent but not necessarily alert, instead submissive to the right point and part of a rich family of the right social position. People who knew their place and hardly ever rebelled against their social duties, and who would even offer their asses to arrive somewhere. Thing that sometimes happened, but that topic must absolutely not come out.

“No, but did I ever do it with the others before?” Itachi retorted sharply. Then, deep in thought, he tied his hair in his usual practical ponytail, the ideal compromise he found with his father to keep long hair in the corporation. That spontaneous and natural gesture encapsulated a methodical and equally elegant Itachi who put chaos in order, and for him, especially that evening, his loose hair was part of that chaos he rarely showed.

“Anyway, as I’ve said, his identity, activities and behavior are of little concern to me. If he follows my standards, he can proceed. Otherwise, he won’t be my problem anymore. At least I have the power to choose, so I’ll properly exploit it.”

Sasuke, after his laughter faded, observed Itachi’s behavior change in those brief instants. The fixing of his hair was like the final act, the rebuilding of the wall that had been briefly torn down and had allowed them to almost communicate like two normal brothers and not two Uchiha. The reappearance of that distance hurt Sasuke, it hurt him like only a few times before, probably because he had deluded himself that it didn’t exist, even if only for a short while.

“Of course, of course…” Sasuke hurriedly replied, slightly flexing his neck in a calculated way that allowed his face not to be seen clearly, along with those expressions that he couldn’t keep under control. “It’s better if I go to sleep, I have training tomorrow morning before class,” he concluded as he stood up.

Itachi felt a painful pang in his chest that admittedly made him more aware, because he knew he should’ve ended the conversation he couldn’t predict the consequences of, and it was unacceptable. He should've done that for Sasuke and for himself. More for Sasuke actually, because holding him closer would mean poisoning him, injecting a toxin in him that could never be completely eliminated.

Itachi stood up in turn, barely resting his diaphanous fingertips on the table. “You’re right, sorry if I kept you here.” He said it with sincerity.

They glanced at each other one last time before withdrawing in their own isolated world, even though their seemingly aloof gazes told that there was nothing to apologize for after all.

For both of them, it had been a section of warmth in that cold fissure of their life, and they felt less empty after so much solitude. Full of thoughts, sure, but happier, even though it wasn’t easy to fully realize the scope of that small change.

At least, not that night.

***

It had been a truly tiring day at work: a new ambitious lawyer had arrived very recently, directly appointed by CEO Fugaku to be included in their army reserves. It definitely hadn’t been easy to introduce him to that sea of sharks, the legal representatives of the company he was in charge of. Besides, he still didn’t fully understand what type of person the new lawyer was, which was essential to figure out his limits and what degree of trust he could concede him.

The fact that his son was Itachi’s new protégé definitely said a lot already. Furthermore, the new lawyer worked overtime those days and knocked himself out. He definitely didn’t lack initiative and the desire to distinguish himself.

Luckily, his cousin had suggested an escape after the interminable evening meeting at Uchiha Corp., and now he finally found himself at Sliding Doors: _their_ bar, where they could relax, feel at ease, and where he could briefly remove the heavy mask he wore every day. He took a long sip of his whiskey before taking off his uncomfortable jacket, remaining in a shirt. His tie was already long gone: Sliding Doors was definitely not a place for dandies, no.

“Do you have a cig?” he asked his cousin, eyeing his seated figure beside him on the small, dark-leathered armchair that was aged and slightly worn-out, just like how he felt in that moment.

Itachi nodded and, after searching in the pockets of his jacket for a moment, held out a packet to the boy who slightly leaned forward to take a cigarette.

Before he could ask anything else, Itachi also leaned towards him and lit his cigarette up with a lighter. The flame flared up for a few seconds, slightly consuming the tip made of paper and tobacco.

Shisui Uchiha, Itachi’s cousin and lawyer from one of the most influential families in Japan, inhaled the smoke voluptuously, without stopping to look at who offered him that exquisite vice. With one hand, he protected the flame that wouldn’t have extinguished anyway but that allowed both of them to move closer and subtly brush against each other.

Shisui barely felt Itachi’s fingers graze his chin, those skinny fingers, like a pianist’s, that he liked so much. He didn’t pull away but inhaled another puff of smoke that descended all the way to his lungs.

Then Itachi leaned back, leaving the lighter and packet on the table.

Shisui exhaled, distractingly sliding a hand between his short, dark hair – characteristics of every Uchiha –, but wavy unlike everyone else’s.

A waitress, dutifully dressed in a provocative but not vulgar way, immediately brought them an ashtray. She was probably ready – like her colleagues – to attract the two boys’ attention, more with the hope to obtain some form of benefit rather than love, which they wisely didn’t believe in.

Shisui continued to smoke slowly and silently along with his cousin, enjoying every poisonous puff and without ever taking his eyes off Itachi, almost as if there was a silent and encrypted dialogue going on between them which they were the only ones to have the code for. Itachi was the only person he could stay quiet with, understanding many more things than words could ever reveal.

However, sometimes dialogues were necessary, and because of that, after carefully stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, he asked, “Something on your mind?”

Itachi’s shoulders seemed tight. Besides, he was the one to have suggested coming here, that night when nothing was planned: no fights, meetings, or unexpected matters to deal with.

Itachi silently stared at him for a while, pondering on his words, then started, “Nothing much. My private lessons start tomorrow, I hope they won’t be too troublesome.”

There was actually something else, a sort of obscure premonition, a gut feeling that didn’t even want to hear about leaving. But Itachi would never be able to tell him that.

He tapped his cigarette above the ashtray before keeping it between his lips as he leaned on his armchair and scrutinized Shisui, waiting for his reaction.

“If the son is like his father, be ready to do physical activity,” Shisui alluded. He leaned closer towards Itachi’s face with a new cigarette between his malicious smile, then lit it up by placing it on Itachi’s incandescent one. All this without ever taking his eyes off him.

Itachi hinted at a smile, catching Shisui’s allusion. In a seemingly gentle but actually determined gesture, he brought a hand behind Shisui’s unflinching neck and closed their distance.

Physical contact between the two was rare, and the fact that Itachi was the one to initiate was even rarer, always cold in his distant perfection. But when he did concede himself an emotional outburst, Shisui never backed away. The latter let himself be transported by the touch of that hand and his skin be tickled by those tapered, gelid fingers that didn’t seem able to transmit heat.

It was thanks to that grasp, so tight to seem like a hint of an embrace, that the two felt justified with themselves to finally be able to get closer. Their foreheads almost touched, their breathing and their cursed eyes, which could dig deep in the soul, were unable to stop when they should.

“I don’t doubt it,” Itachi replied in an almost hoarse whisper. “But… he’s not the one I want to do physical activity with. Especially not tonight.”

Shisui distinctly felt shivers down his spine and those damned, marvelous fingers sliding a few centimeters up his neck before sneaking into his short, wavy hair, grabbing and lightly tugging it; a delicious prelude to what would happen afterwards.

“Then you shouldn’t have invited me here at the bar but somewhere else,” Shisui replied, smiling at Itachi with an amused glint in his eyes - later replaced by a languid one -, as he delicately exhaled the smoke out of his full lips. “Let’s go,” he concluded. They’ve already wasted too much precious time there.

Time. Tyrannical, malefic time. It didn’t escape but flowed inexorably, without looking anyone in the eyes. It was up to who pursued time not to lose sight of it, remembering that the fault of a missed gesture, moment or experience was only that of oneself, and that time doesn’t have anything to do with it. It was a missed train, nothing more than that.

Itachi wanted to seize every instant avidly and not leave other regrets behind because his life was an already written book, chapter after chapter, that followed a merciless writer’s inflexible will, his father Fugaku Uchiha. When the latter stopped writing, interrupting the illusion to have total control, the firstborn could live for real, in the apocryphal book of his true existence, where it was worthwhile to run to the station in advance to catch the important trains on time, those that took Itachi to the places he truly wanted to go.

That night, the location, person and moment that couldn’t be missed was Shisui Uchiha. Because Itachi liked touching and being touched by him, he liked his lean body almost as much as his own, where he could almost feel his sinewy muscles holding onto the bones. And, with corrupted perversion, he loved the idea that his father was unaware of it all, because if he ever came to know how dirty, different and divergent his perfect son and creation was, he wouldn’t hesitate to burn the book he was writing in his son’s place and Itachi along with it.

“You’re right. We have the night all to ourselves.”

They extinguished their cigarettes: only smoke, ashes and the flow of time remained, along with the incessant desire to stay in each other’s flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheper’s notes (translated):  
> (26/02/2017)  
>  _We’re back again with a hopefully enjoyable update. We’re a bit busy so we won’t digress too much, but we just wanted to say this: things are starting to get interesting. Stay tuned!_
> 
> betta_100's notes:  
> (25/01/2021)  
> Kheper's absolutely right, things will get _really_ interesting, oh yes  
> Thanks for reading as always!


	4. Wonderwall

_Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me_   
_And after all, you're my wonderwall_   
_(Oasis)_

The nights were still rather chilly despite the spring season, not without some discomfort. Exiting the bar, Itachi pulled up the collar of his jacket in an improvised attempt to cover himself from a gust of wind that ruffled his hair as ungracefully as an invasive relative.

But all in all, it did not matter: soon he and Shisui would be far away from there, without having to care about anyone, nor being forced to wear their hero costumes to satisfy their judgmental family who have planned their banal life. Itachi deliberately didn’t brush off his hair from his eyes but proceeded to look in front of him. Shisui was walking beside him with his head high and a challenging demeanor, his hands in his black coat, his big eyes watering due to the wind, while his lips – fuller than Itachi’s – were already dry.

And then, suddenly, a tiny but not insignificant tinge of color appeared in that suburb annihilated by indifference and neglect.

A cherry blossom petal.

Pink, of a bright and annoying but still appreciated shade for it symbolized vitality and change: how Itachi loved watching them fall, knowing that they will regrow every year, but not everyone was lucky enough to witness it.

Who knows where that petal came from and what had pushed it to that sterile, treeless and lifeless place? Yet, carried by the wind, it had twirled frantically, probably destined to fall on a dirty sidewalk and waste its hypnotic beauty in a place where nobody would’ve loved or noticed it. That was, unfortunately, a destiny that happened to many.

Curious, like a reader that wants to discover a book’s ending, Itachi turned his head to follow that petal, wondering if in the end, after traveling so far, it would fall to the ground. And then, with the petal at the mercy of the restless wind, he spotted another hint of color. Perhaps a stain, accidentally fallen on a canvas of black and grays.

A boy with red hair, an almost artificial crimson that would stand out in a crowd of much more normal hues.

Itachi lost sight of the petal, ending up shifting his gaze towards that nocturnal creature like him, that sort of supernatural apparition that nonetheless disappeared, vanishing in an alley like a shadow immersed in an equally dark puddle.

Itachi barely furrowed his brows, perplexed for a moment, almost unsure if his imagination was the one to evoke a visual contrast to his otherwise flat reality.

Meanwhile Shisui had surpassed him, unconcerned as always, indifferent to the beauty of a petal, a bright color, or a clash in normality. Perhaps he preferred it that way. Then, Itachi glimpsed the petal one last time: on the sidewalk a few meters from them.

Where did its beauty go? To the mud, to the dirt: once it fell, the petal lost its color and uniqueness, becoming banal and rotten like all of them. Even though, that night at least, it had flown and travelled after being hurled by the wind, splendidly and solitarily.

***

Gaara continued to tread that unfamiliar road stubbornly, unaware of having created a stir of turmoil in a stranger that he would get to know soon. His mind was elsewhere, away from his cold and aching body: it was stuck in what was currently his home, still grappling with the last argument he had and the disappointment his father dumped on him just a few hours ago.

It had been quite a few days since Gaara saw his father who was busy with his new job. The man, in fact, was the first one to leave the house in the morning and returned very late at night, but on that godforsaken Wednesday he’d decided to return earlier with the intent to talk to Gaara, and unfortunately the latter couldn’t avoid that discussion in any way. Gaara had been forced to sit at the table with them, with the excuse that it had been too long since they’ve had a family dinner. For the umpteenth time, his siblings had witnessed a pathetic scene that should be added in a psychiatry textbook, under the section _trauma_.

Gaara had kept his eyes lowered, fixed on his soup bowl, observing pieces of vegetables floating randomly as if they contained the secret of life in their imprecise and continuous wobble. In reality, it was simply an excuse to avoid eye contact. But then… he’d heard his father pronouncing his name in his dry and authoritarian way, to which Gaara couldn’t react. Rasa’s arrogant and scathing tone inevitably brought back the defenseless child Gaara tried to bury in the depths of his soul: he was powerless and weak under his father’s authority and the world’s ruthlessness.

Gaara had slowly raised his head, forcing himself to look at his creator’s face, reading a mixture of contempt and anger, ill-concealed under the need for that unwanted son to shine and bring his plans forward.

“It’s mandatory to attend a club at your new school. Which one did you join?” Rasa had asked, without even considering the possibility that Gaara could’ve done the opposite. “The basketball and baseball clubs should be the best ones, but you’re definitely not the athletic type, you’d have to push yourself too hard to excel and that would take away time to study. You’ve always been talented in running though, so the athletics club should be perfect for you. Also, you must socialize and become popular, otherwise what are all my efforts to make myself known at the legal department for?” he’d concluded, not noticing how Gaara had spasmodically tightened the napkin between his thin fingers.

The boy had feared those words: he’d been torn about Shikamaru’s invitation, and obviously his father wouldn’t have wanted to see him buried in a dusty and squalid club of little importance like the chess club. But in the end, he knew he couldn’t have done otherwise; he could never socialize like he wanted. He’d never succeeded before, so he definitely wouldn’t rediscover himself to be a social butterfly at eighteen years old!

Pressing his already thin lips and tightening his grip on the napkin, Gaara had whispered a feeble “No” that immediately earned him a wave of scorn and disapproval, forcing him to explain what he’d chosen instead.

His father had hit him with a stream of stinging, razor-sharp words that left blood-dripping scars on the defenseless child’s delicate skin. Those words had overwhelmed Gaara once more, throwing him in a murky sea of despair and making him sink to the bottom until he reached the darkest abyss of his soul and his pain’s limits. To prevent himself from dying and to try and breathe, he’d been forced to lock his delicate and fragile ego away. He’d then allowed rage and hatred to accumulate in the remaining void. Already deaf to his father’s words and his sister’s attempts to defend him, the only sound he could hear was his blood rumbling in his ears and pulsating in his veins, and the sudden sound of a soup bowl being hurled at the wall.

From then on, his memories weren’t clear: for the umpteenth time, he’d been at the mercy of what everyone simply dismissed as a fit of rage. But there was more, he knew it well. There was more to that rage, an alter ego, another person even more concealed than his defenseless self. A violent identity with a destructive force and no positive feature. That part of him was able to kill, and if it scared him on the one hand, it fascinated him on the other. That side of him has always longed to feel soaked in his father’s warm blood and finally feel free; the temptation that it exerted on him was undeniable. It was like a siren’s song that was harder and harder to fight back with reason.

Reason he’d abruptly returned to. Suddenly, he’d found his siblings holding him back by force and his father on the floor rubbing his neck. Around him, the table was overturned with everything that was on top of it, and the chairs were wrecked. His breathing was heavy, his forehead sweaty, his heart furiously beating in his chest – so hard that it seemed like it wanted to rise up his throat – and his astonished gaze had registered the surrounding damage.

His siblings had let him go after noticing that he regained consciousness, and Gaara had turned to meet their terrorized and unbearable gazes: they were more excruciating than his father’s spite. He’d then escaped from the room, spontaneously taking his schoolbag from the foyer and running away without looking back or knowing where to go, but feeling like he couldn’t breathe and that he had to leave to collect the shards of himself.

Gaara walked for hours. He didn’t know which part of the city he was in and it actually didn’t even bother him. He only noticed that the neighborhood was rather squalid and worn-down, very different from the residential one he lived in and where his school stood. The only things he could see were sex shops, liquor shops, love motels and more than a few homeless people resting in the dark corners of the street, where there were more broken streetlights than functioning ones.

It was a truly bleak landscape, in line with his emotions. Gaara didn’t know what to do, nor where to go. The only certain thing was that he couldn’t return home, not that night. Despite his aching feet, he continued to walk until the scenery around him changed, becoming more decent and more normal: the streets were well-lit with trees surrounding and embellishing it.

He saw a park and entered. It wouldn’t be his first time sleeping outside. He found the usual, inevitable playgrounds and went to settle himself in a plastic playhouse, crouching down in the little space he had, though at least there was a roof – albeit fake – on his head that would shield him from the persistent wind that gnawed his skin with its cold caresses. Being in a hurry, he'd only left with his school uniform he wore that morning, which was definitely not suitable for a similar predicament.

He somehow managed to sleep for at least an hour and left his new and improvised house only at the crack of dawn, aching and freezing. He still didn’t exactly know where he was so he rummaged his schoolbag where he luckily found his phone, on which his sister’s missed calls were clearly displayed. There was also a message, but he ignored it and opened an app that could help him orient himself. He then arrived at school very early, under the surprised gazes of the few people that were already walking about in the streets, and once he got in the bathroom, the reason was soon clear: he looked alien to himself. What reflected in the mirror seemed a ghost.

Gaara stretched a trembling arm towards the mirror and the reflected image that showed him a person with even more ruffled hair than usual; his already light skin was so pale it seemed translucent and as thin as a scroll; his eyebags, ever-present due to his insomnia, were even more pronounced; his lips were blueish for the endured cold, while the only tinge of normal color was his eyes, which were nevertheless lifeless and empty. He traced a finger on the icy surface of the mirror, caressing his delicate features and taking note of himself just like Narcissus, but instead of falling in love, Gaara feared his multifaceted self.

He turned on the hot water and placed his head under the tap, trying to adjust his hair and rubbing his skin until it became red and less cold, finding a less confused and scary reflection of himself of a few minutes ago. He then left the bathroom and headed towards the vending machines, feeling hungry since he didn’t eat anything last night. He wondered what he should do as he bit on a chocolate bar and drank a mouthful of artificial tea with the only merit of being steaming. He would meet the famous Itachi Uchiha that day, but he had no idea where and at what time, and more importantly… Could he keep going as if nothing happened last night?

Gaara shrugged, letting the hot tea dilate his abused stomach after a night outside which he felt he should probably start getting used to. Then, his phone vibrated: among the few notifications he received, and despite the battery on the verge of abandoning him, he noticed an email. He hinted at a sad and almost disgusted smile: the only one who would send him emails was his father. He sighed as the page loaded, imagining some meagre, threatening message towards him.

Gaara was surprised, perhaps ingenuously, to find something entirely different: yes, there were literally two sentences, but devoid of any references to last night’s events. Without traces of emotion, they were the cold instructions on the time and location Gaara must follow to start his private lessons, but the conclusion was way too explanatory: _go_.

If he actually dared to skip those lessons to wander around like he wanted instead, his father’s reaction would be worse than any disappointment he felt for Gaara’s wrong choice of an after-school club. And… no, Gaara was still not ready to withstand the tsunami of violence that would otherwise crash into him.

He put his phone back in his pocket, reflecting on the fact that he would have to go to one of those fashionable cafés in the city center that all seemed identical to each other. He would’ve wasted an hour and a half of his life with a guy he absolutely couldn’t care less about, and who in turn was very likely uninterested in Gaara either.

The school bell rang and, despite himself, the boy had to commence his cursed day made of commitments and unwanted social duties.

But deep down, that was fine: anything to avoid returning home, since his entire life was already an invisible yet indestructible prison.

***

That café was a pleasant place to be in, with large tables, comfortable armchairs and brews rich in caffeine and sugar, everything spiced up with free internet connection. People came and went, sometimes staying after having a drink and scrolling virtual pages from a PC, a tablet or simply their phones, isolating themselves from others who were only sitting at a few steps’ distance.

That was why Itachi Uchiha had chosen that café as their first meeting place. A neutral terrain, far away from his house and from Sasuke, where he could investigate who he would dedicate a year of his life to. He’d arrived early, like a criminal inspecting a location before committing robbery, choosing a table farther than the others and positioning textbooks, papers, pens and his laptop with maniacal care so he could take control of everything that surrounded him as usual.

With a novel in hand, he skimmed its pages distractingly, raising his gaze from time to time towards the entrance to scrutinize who came in so that he could predict their movements and anticipate who would walk towards his direction, discovering the identity of his future student. Not for benevolent interest towards him, but to have the possibility to study him and beat him to the draw in that brief lapse of time before he showed up. Itachi never lowered his guard, ever.

After making eye contact with a chubby boy with an excessively passive aura and having feared for the worst – because he came to know way too many submissive people in his life –, he didn’t even have time to subconsciously sigh in relief before someone else entered the café who, among everyone, Itachi was least expecting to see.

And it was, in all honesty, a full blow to his chest because he’d never been taken by surprise in his whole life, but that day – the first of many –, a full-on stranger has been capable of it: Itachi could recognize those red locks in any crowd, a clashing bloodstain on a white shirt.

 _Him_ … His apparition, his ghost. Itachi inadvertently closed his already long forgotten book but still held onto it with the strength of a sailor searching for a handhold to stay afloat after being catapulted from a ship.

What was he doing there? How could Itachi have predicted or even anticipated his appearance in that neutral place where his two parallel lives had absolutely no reason to intersect? A place that was completely devoid of that ephemeral beauty he glimpsed during the flight of that solitary cherry blossom last night, or the strength and passion that ensued in a squalid room of a love motel that became as precious as a palace due to the intensity of who occupied it for a few hours. And the image of two naked bodies clinging to each other, demanding hands, and mouths reddened by all the passionate kisses given to his lover flashed in front of Itachi’s eyes.

The sudden sound of a mug shattering on the floor shook Itachi from his turmoil and voyage in his recent memories that were better than that flat and grey reality he was cruelly dragged into again.

Not being noticed, he studied his personal phantom for a moment as the clinking door closed on the latter’s shoulders: Itachi saw him slightly glancing around him, looking visibly uncomfortable. He slyly hypothesized that the boy would head towards the counter in search of a not too trendy drink, or maybe meet up with a friend, a recently met girl, a distant acquaintance, or anyone else that had pushed him there, a place that was so far away from his reality.

Then, the revelation.

He was coming towards Itachi, carrying the promise of an additional shocking omen in the form of a light grey jacket with Ishikawa High School’s unmistakable crest on its pocket. Itachi couldn’t but recognize it; he’d carried it himself for three years and still saw it on his brother almost daily. Squinting his eyes, Itachi observed him more carefully and noticed how his clothing was creased, his tie disappeared, and the collar of his white shirt loosened. Itachi’s world wavered, but he didn’t avert his gaze.

Then, inevitably, their eyes met. Without embarrassment, fleeting gazes, or evasive pretense.

They acknowledged, observed and studied each other in that inevitable walk that closed their gap, the tide of their lives that would inexorably envelop them both.

And none of them lowered their gaze, with their pride that characterized them.

Itachi then placed his hands on the table as if that boy with flame red hair, a seemingly slender build, an icy gaze and diaphanous skin could knock it over. But his mind could not elaborate anything, nothing that could provide him with some concrete hints about who he was dealing with: because that boy, that beautiful boy alienated from the world, was not showing any emotions, like a shiny mirror unable to reflect anything. Itachi was unfazed, but for the first time, he felt incapable of having everything under control, and that left him faltering. But he didn’t show it, especially not then, that day, the first of many. He didn’t give Sabaku no Gaara the satisfaction to let him know that… yes, he was fatally and destructively struck by him.

“Itachi Uchiha?” Gaara asked in a neutral tone once he arrived in front of him, aware of the question’s uselessness. He knew it was the Uchiha perfectly after having seen him a couple times on TV, and because he knew he was recognized by the intensity of Itachi’s gaze that he bravely managed to keep, despite his surprise in seeing such dark and almost hypnotic eyes. And that was why he asked such a stupid question: he needed to gain some time, even a few seconds would be valuable. He’d walked slowly, but it wasn’t enough.

He still felt bewitched by that piercing gaze, the aura of power and magnificence that the Uchiha radiated around him unconsciously or not. Gaara also noticed the perfection of his neat clothes, his appearance and the composure with which he was sitting, and that made him feel even more inferior and self-conscious about his own ruffled hair, pale and tired face, creased and definitely unclean uniform after his night outdoors.

His heart was beating fast, his anxiety hit the roof, and all this could only stiffen him in the futile attempt, at least in his opinion, to conceal the discomfort he felt. He tried to regain the usual impassiveness that characterized him, though he still couldn’t break eye contact and enchantedly awaited a response.

“That’s me.” A brief pause before the final confirm. “Gaara?”

The boy nodded as he remained on his feet, as straight as a rod.

With an inkling of a smile, Itachi elegantly shifted an arm, indicating the armchair in front of him.

“Take a seat. Since we’ll pass the academic year together, I’ve decided to commence our first meeting here. We’ll get to know each other, set goals to achieve and work on your gaps.” He looked at Gaara straight in the eyes, ignoring the feeling that he would hardly find any imperfection in him. “But let me get this clear: I hate wasting time. I expect improvements, and if there aren’t any, each of us will go our separate ways without too many afterthoughts. I don’t like lost causes.”

Dry and direct. Splendid. At least there was an initial affinity.

What Gaara didn’t know was how that harmonic succession of words, seemingly imbued with professionalism and experience, was none other than an elegant means exploited by Itachi to plug his own thoughts that continued to flow in his mind.

The sheer presence of that pale and apathetic boy, so distant from the fake world they both belonged to, brought Itachi back to last night: like an awfully spoiled brat, Itachi couldn’t stop thinking about his most beloved toy.

Shisui. Yes, maybe even what they did at night, hidden in the dark and anonymity of an empty room, was a game. And Gaara’s eyes that stared at him lifelessly were so different than those full of provocation of Shisui, who aroused him and was sometimes hasty, brisk and even hot-headed, other times caring like a lover he rarely managed to display.

Together, sweaty and dirty from a relationship they lived hidden from a society that would destroy them, far away from their city, their planet and the entire universe.

And despite everything, Itachi still clang onto Shisui as if he didn’t want to fly away. He’d scratched Shisui’s naked, muscular back and his hard buttocks tightened by his thrusts; he’d tugged at his wavy hair that brushed against his full lips and his slightly sunken collarbones; he’d felt his heart beating in his ribcage when they became one, close to each other, splendidly compromised by their raw, wild love.

Meanwhile Gaara, unaware of the other’s thoughts, had advanced and finally managed to break their disturbing eye contact when he sat down, now able to think clearer. He undoubtedly liked how someone told him things as they were, without deception or beating around the bush, where one had to understand countless implications, something that Gaara really wasn’t able to do, so unused to chat and discuss with other people.

One thing struck him, though: lost causes. Wasn’t he one of them? Wasn’t he considered useless, if not even detrimental by his own father just a little while ago? And what was he now? What should he do? How should he respond? And getting to know each other, set goals? Until then, his only goal was to merely survive, and he definitely wasn’t a connoisseur of himself.

His mouth felt dry, as if someone put a handful of sand in it, and his fatigue made him feel like a puppet held by invisible strings. He was confused and, as he raised his eyes, he lost himself in Itachi’s gaze again. Gaara then decided to do the only thing he’s always done: let himself be carried by the current.

“I don’t exactly know what my father expects from me… but anyway, I’ll entrust myself to you. You definitely have more experience than me,” Gaara replied in a low but clear voice, sitting on the edge of his armchair with his back straight as always.

Perplexed, because the boy seemed much more willing than he thought at first glance, Itachi mildly nodded.

“Perfect.” He took a pen and paper and handed them to Gaara, holding them with his tapered fingers. “Now write the university you’d like to go to and the list of subjects you’re studying. Then tell me honestly those that you’re not good at. I need you to write them down because you’ll always need to keep your goals and weaknesses in mind.”

Martial, academic, inflexible. Yet… how old was he? Twenty-two? Was he really an adult in the body of a young boy? But as he talked in that serious but not excessively strict voice, with his elegant posture and his hands still gripping that piece of paper, he seemed much more than a strict teacher. A magnet, capable of attracting anyone who had the chance to approach him just enough to hear him talk with his calculated but not artificial gestures.

Gaara furrowed his sparse brows and pressed his already thin lips, making them pale and similar to his skin tone. He hadn’t expected all those shocking questions, and it was only the beginning! Maybe his plan to entrust himself to Itachi was not the best choice. He should’ve explicitly told him that he was a lost cause and leave.

A pity that he would then have to leave his home too because his father would disown him. Actually, sometimes he wondered why he hadn’t abandoned him despite everything.

“I don’t have issues with my subjects,” Gaara started as he slightly tilted his head, the only movement he made since he sat down. “But I really don’t know what to tell you about university,” he admitted without hurrying to take what was offered to him.

Annoyed by the fact that his student hadn’t written anything yet, but still curious about that turn of events, Itachi commented as he retracted his hand and crossed his arm, “That’s a great start. Have you ever talked about it with your parents?”

A hypocritical question, because he’d never asked his own parents either. He’d been enrolled in no uncertain terms and that was it.

“I don’t talk with my father much,” Gaara replied laconically, deciding to take the paper without fearing physical contact with Itachi anymore.

Perfect, the misfit was lacking in the list of human stereotypes Itachi met in those years of private tutoring.

He drummed his fingers on the table and, after noticing that the cursed notepad had been taken, he decided to say, “How about this: we’ll aim for the most prestigious university. I don’t think your father will have anything to object after he sent you to me. Now proceed with your subjects, if you know what they are, of course,” he added with a dry irony that Gaara didn’t particularly appreciate.

Gaara had passed his entire life being made fun of and laughed at because of his appearance, and he definitely didn’t like how a perfect stranger was being ironic about his lifestyle. The thought of answering him that he wasn’t stupid, that nobody has ever allowed him to dream, that they’ve always considered him less than zero, and now that he was given the possibility to succeed he didn’t know how, flashed in his mind. He lacked the right tools, like a talented sculptor without a chisel: what could he ever achieve in that state? He didn’t feel like embarking on a similar explanation with a stranger though. With no-one, actually. He simply glared at Itachi before lowering his head and starting to write.

Itachi, who couldn’t know any of this, restrained himself to study Gaara, observing him furtively. He examined those smaller but strangely sturdier hands than his own that gripped his pen with an almost desperate firmness; he read Gaara’s neat calligraphy, his steady arms, his slightly hunched shoulders as if they carried the world on top; then he scrutinized his red hair, with coppery shades that were so out of the ordinary and probably more eye-catching than its owner ever wanted. Against his own expectations, Itachi found himself traveling in his mind, comparing Gaara’s hands with Shisui’s bigger, warmer and more experienced ones, wondering what it would feel like to be caressed by those unfamiliar fingers or to sink his own in that burning red hair.

As if struck by a premonition, Gaara raised his gaze and surprised the older son of the Uchiha who was concentrated on staring at him with disarming intensity, right when he thought about lazily leafing through the book he was reading when he entered, as if it could make up for the time Itachi was making him waste.

But instead, among everything else, Itachi was looking at _him_.

That revelation shocked Gaara, causing him to react with a defensive toughness that was typical of him, “No, I don’t dye my hair, nor do I wear colored contacts, and I don’t have hidden tattoos either.”

Itachi was definitely judging his appearance like every other person had done with him, and they all invariably thought of the same things.

For a moment, Itachi was caught off-guard by that reaction, blaming himself for those inappropriate thoughts that had appeared with unusual spontaneity. Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. A genuine laughter similar to a splendid wave of warmth, able to melt the ice he was buried in.

Itachi propped his elbows on the armrest and clarified before his reaction could be misunderstood, “No, I don’t doubt you are the real one in the slightest. You have a lovely hair color, not easy to pull off but still wonderful. I assume you’ve already heard this.”

No, Itachi couldn’t know a lot of things that day: that he was actually the first one to appreciate something Gaara himself hated so much and that his laughter incredibly made his student look at him under a different light.

Gaara had in fact noticed that, in the end, Itachi’s long, black hair was disobedient in its own way and tamed by a ponytail; his clothes were less stuffy and more informal than they appeared; his eyes more tired and less inscrutable.

In the end, Gaara discovered that even Itachi Uchiha was exquisitely and inevitably human. That realization, together with the compliment received, caused his cheeks to lightly turn red. And when Itachi had laughed, Gaara couldn’t think but he was truly beautiful: it was the first time he thought of something similar about someone that wasn’t his mother, of whom he jealously kept a photo that portrayed her beauty, her smile and her life before Gaara’s birth killed her.

Embarrassed, Gaara lowered his head and murmured a “Not really” before resuming to write slowly, ruffling his hated hair further with his free hand as if he wanted to hide it from Itachi’s gaze.

Itachi’s lips curved into a faint smile as he tried to understand who exactly he was dealing with, because Gaara had nothing to do with his previous students: he wasn’t conveniently devoted, nor lazily rebellious, but he was a mixture of a lot of things that were so fleeing Itachi couldn’t comprehend them.

Then, for the first time, he decided to leave it be. Perhaps dealing with Gaara meant that, too: a boat swaying in unknown waters that led towards a storm or a distant land. That was also fine for Itachi, who was used to walk smooth, paved roads instead. Sailing could be an interesting and uncompromising variation to his life.

That Thursday afternoon was the first of many hours of studying, words, exchanged glances and caffeinated drinks.

***

An annoying sunray continued to hit and irritate him, forcing him to continuously shift on the chair to avoid hurting his eyes. He eventually managed to find a definitive position and felt the sun warming his nape, igniting thousands of flaming reflections on his hair without him actually caring about it. His eyes were fixed on one of the worn-out books of the club, in theory to try and study the rules of chess, in practice to avoid interacting with the other members. He was also particularly distracted that Friday. He couldn’t even concentrate on a single sentence but wandered in the thoughts of what he should do after leaving.

The previous day, after his lesson with Itachi, Gaara had meandered around for a long time and returned home late when everyone was already asleep, while he left very early this morning. That way he avoided every kind of interaction with his family, although his father wasn’t what worried him: he was sure that his father would ignore him the next time they met; what he really didn’t know was how he should face his siblings, especially Temari. After his last fit of rage, in which he attempted to strangle his father, he’d seen sheer terror in their eyes. In what way could he simply apologize and keep living under their same roof as if nothing happened? Maybe they now feared that he would kill them in their sleep. He knew that they thought of him as a mentally unstable person and… he started to wonder if they were actually right.

After leaving school he would have to return home and a long weekend would await him, but what could he do? Perhaps the only solution was to barricade himself in his room and that was it.

 _It would be better for everyone_ , he told himself sadly, staring at the figure of a knight on a page of his book. Incredible, he didn’t even realize he’d turned the pages.

“So, what are you reading?”

“A chess handbook for beginners,” Gaara replied, slightly furrowing his brows and annoyed by the fact he had to waste his breath to answer such a stupid question: the title was clearly written on the cover.

Naruto ignored him and replied, “Oh come on, what a waste of time. It’s like insisting you know how to have sex just by reading an anatomy textbook!”

Gaara raised his head in a snap as he widened his eyes. How in hell could that guy even say something like that? And why blare it to him, too?

“What… what does that have to do with anything? It’s different…” Gaara replied, embarrassed.

Pleased to have shaken a reaction out of that reserved boy, Naruto snickered cheerfully. He was like that, after all: uplifting, whimsical and energetic, a real force of nature. And one really needed to be some sort of prodigy to have anything to do with people like the Uchiha, or, fresh addition, with that stone wall called Gaara.

Despite Naruto was frequently labelled as a nuisance or someone invasive, in the end his joyfulness was contagious, and the friendship he demonstrated was equally precious. A sort of uncontrolled catalyst, a lack of which could be felt in moments of solitude.

Though aware of it all, Shikamaru decided it wasn’t worth testing Gaara’s patience in discovering Naruto’s innumerable qualities, so he came to his rescue, ending the Uzumaki’s - also known as the textile empire’s heir’s - joviality.

“Naruto, didn’t I tell you not to annoy our newcomer to death? Don’t tell me you want to scare him off so soon?” Shikamaru reprimanded him good-naturedly, resting an arm around Naruto’s shoulders as he playfully punched his ribs with his other hand.

“Ouch!” the victim of that unjustified violence – at least in Naruto’s humble opinion – exclaimed. “It seems my ankle wasn’t enough, do you now want to break a few of my ribs too? You should consider dedicating yourself to judo, not chess for sure.”

He rubbed his torso and continued to mutter, but at least it let the club’s newcomer breathe and not make him flee from the first week.

At that point Shikamaru, with intelligent diplomacy that was typical of him, added to Gaara, “Forgive him, sometimes he can be” - he wanted to say _a pain in the ass_ , but he felt it wasn’t exactly appropriate - “a bit hot-headed, but he’s a good guy and a great friend.”

“Well, if you say so…” Gaara murmured, perplexed and slightly uncomfortable for being at the center of attention, though he’d observed their exchange and familiarity with interest, feeling faintly envious.

“Tsk, two compliments like that aren’t enough to make my ribs forgive you!” Naruto exclaimed to his friend. “At the very least, you’ll have to offer me something to eat when we leave. And I didn’t even say anything wrong: Gaara should train with someone, not read a handbook here! It’s useless. There’s a reason why nobody reads it, right?” he concluded, satisfied by what he deemed a great display of eloquence.

Shikamaru barely curved his lips upwards, in a twitch of disgust and laziness towards the idea of wasting his time with a beginner, but in the end he shrugged compliantly, deciding that it wasn’t an entirely incorrect approach after all. They were both people of few words, but perhaps some much more silent pawns would make them communicate in a weird and distorted manner.

“Why not? The basic rules aren’t even that many in the end. We can start by memorizing each pawn’s role as we play, and the rest will follow.”

Without waiting for Gaara’s possible or equally certain objection, Shikamaru shifted one of the tables that almost creaked pitifully, placed a worn-out chessboard on top and ignored the plastic timer.

“Black or white?” Shikamaru simply asked, sitting in front of his absurd student and opponent who looked at him wide-eyed.

In fact, Gaara had followed all of Shikamaru’s movements with horror, scared at the idea of having to interact with another person and telling himself that it wasn’t possible. There couldn’t be someone who seriously showed interest in him. Hadn’t Shikamaru seen him in the face? Didn’t he think he had a threatening aura, that he was a delinquent and that he would only bring trouble? He couldn’t understand what flashed in those two’s mind, those two who had spontaneously spoken to him: he felt very hesitant and awkward, but everything was surrounded by a yet unknown feeling. _Warmth_.

He felt warm in seeing those two taking an interest in him, leaning towards him, waiting for something good, or at least something positive from him. It was the first time it happened, he felt puzzled and scared, even… but he also felt that unfamiliar warmth encircling him. Maybe it was the sun that was basking his nape, or maybe it was just those two people’s smiles in front of him.

“Uhm… black,” Gaara said, deciding to put himself out there, stretching a hand to take the pawns and starting the first game of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheper’s notes (translated):  
> (10/03/2017)  
>  _Hello everyone! Itachi and Gaara finally meet: two blocks of ice, unable to talk and interact with other people, though each in different ways. Gaara simply doesn’t know how, while Itachi isn’t interested in it or sees its utility… We’ll see if these two icebergs will melt or not XD  
>  Gaara finally starts catching a glimpse and feeling the warmth of friendship, and he’ll see that a Wonderwall really exists.  
> Nobody noticed it, or at least didn’t tell us about it, but each chapter’s title is also a song title and it’ll always be like that. So go and listen to Oasis’ “Wonderwall” and continue to stay with us and read if you want to broaden your music knowledge and discover how the story unfolds, especially since the red rating will finally find its reason to exist in the next chapter lol!  
> Thank you to our followers and who hearts our story and, if you can, leave us some comments. We really appreciate your feedback.  
> See you soon!_
> 
> betta_100’s notes:  
> (02/02/2021)  
> This was a chapter full of events and emotions. Gaara and Itachi finally meet, and the dynamics between Gaara, Shika and Naruto are as endearing as ever <3\. As always, I hope the translation was relatively smooth and natural ^^  
> Just a heads-up that the rating will rise to E from the next chapter!


	5. Heroes

_Though nothing will keep us together  
We could steal time, just for one day  
We can be heroes, forever and ever  
(David Bowie)_

Sliding Doors was quite lively that Saturday night, with people coming and going and an always diverse range of customers who wanted just enough privacy and fanciness that the bar was able to offer with absolute discretion. 

Despite the nocturnal crowd, Itachi and Shisui Uchiha still managed to isolate themselves and exclusively devote themselves to each other, barely noticing other people’s lives unravelling in front of their eyes: from the married man in search of a lover to youngsters wanting to experience a different night out, concluding with the bar’s regulars who knew exactly where to go, what to order and who to hang out with.

Shisui reached his second beer of the night, a certain number of smoked cigarettes and extinguished cigarette butts, while Itachi had accompanied him, preferring to settle for a much more classic and rigorously straight whiskey that he sipped with his usual composure. As for smoking, however, he could rival his cousin with no afterthoughts.

These were the moments they spent together, far away from sex and business: ashtrays with cigarette butts and drinking glasses that gradually emptied, relishing in the past.

Shisui, proud in his tall and muscular build, with beautiful wavy hair slightly pushed backwards and a black shirt that was so distant from his workplace etiquette, had just stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray before crossing his legs in his typically nonchalant way and staring at Itachi, waiting for his cousin to tell him something that didn’t have to do with their organization or business.

But Shisui hinted at a smile when he realized that, as always, his cousin would’ve hardly taken a similar initiative.

He then asked out of the blue with his usual, concealed enterprise, “So, did you do your typical boyfriend duties tonight as well?” And a sly smile emerged on his face, almost reaching his eyes.

Itachi inhaled a puff of smoke, pretending he didn’t understand Shisui’s provocation. In the end, he casually asked, “As in?”

“As in you took her to dinner, opened the car door like a real gentleman and other crap like that? They go crazy for these things,” Shisui replied with an inkling of laughter in his voice. “Maybe you’ve even honored her with a good fuck,” he concluded, stealing a sip of Itachi’s whiskey.

Itachi smiled despite himself, observing Shisui’s lips setting on the same glass he’d just drunk from himself, with a trace of provocation both of them liked.

“I’d say I behaved more than decently. And yes, we fucked; she was terribly eager. That is also part of my duties, no?” Itachi slightly tilted his head with a cigarette between his fingers and asked with languid seriousness, “Do you want me to tell you the details on how I made her come?”

“Maybe later, provided you didn’t tire yourself out too much,” Shisui replied staring at him in the eyes, letting Itachi understand quite clearly that he didn’t want to go home alone. “That way you can refresh my memory on hetero sex a bit, especially with young girls.” He quietly laughed.

Shisui was single for more than a year now and he felt great, free from unwanted and unloved girlfriends, even though earning that freedom hadn’t been easy. He’d had to weave complex intrigues of lies and deceptions for it.

And Itachi, deep down, envied that freedom he couldn’t have, because Ino was horribly and desperately in love, and she would’ve always stayed by his side like the most devoted of aspiring brides or the most stubborn parasite. But he’d decided to relegate her to one of his many workplace duties and his social life for a long time already: she was equally happy, or pretended not to notice the illusion, while he could experience that relationship as something inevitable and not a conviction that tied him down.

He appreciated the time spent with Shisui even more for that. Their respective provocations, their open but never excessive dialogues in the shadows of the bar and then in the anonymity of a hotel was where he lived his true life no matter how twisted it seemed.

“I’d rather not let you forget what it means to do it with a _man_.”

Itachi inevitably highlighted the word _man_ , with that energetic and disturbing authority that made Shisui lose his mind. Because yes, in sex, in the moment when even his soul was laid bare, even Itachi would lose his composure and find that ferocious, even seductively violent instinct that would otherwise be hidden in the most remote corner of himself. It was like a provoking clothing buried under infinite layers of accurately starched garments.

Shisui’s smile became completely open and sincere at those words, without irony or other types of teasing.

They saw each other every day due to their jobs, talking and discussing, but always about things related to the Uchiha Corporation. The time they had for themselves was minimal, limited to a couple of seemingly light-hearted yet precious sentences that kept them going in their oppressing life. Usually they managed to find one night per week for themselves to stay with each other, talk and make love, but it definitely wasn’t a fixed date. They wouldn’t be able to keep a similar commitment with the number of things that required their attention.

Yet that week, not only did Itachi take initiative – a task that usually fell on Shisui – but they would be together that night as well. It was an unexpected and sublime gift, an occasion that couldn’t be missed for any reason.

“I couldn’t ask for more,” Shisui replied with his irresistible smile.

Those words were the plain and simple truth. He loved having sex, and doing it with his cousin was the best thing that could’ve happened in his life. Whenever he thought that he’d risked not knowing what it felt like… it sent him crazy! Holding Itachi’s slim and sturdy body was indescribable, like the honor of seeing his face twisted by pleasure, a sight that was worth the best artist’s strokes.

“Since you’ll take care of my memory later,” Shisui added with an exquisite quiver of anticipation that flowed through his skin. “What do you think about your new student? You haven’t told me anything and you know damn well I was curious since he’s also my new subordinate's son!”

Itachi was too used to his cousin’s rapid changes of topic to be surprised, but he still remained silent for a while. Not that he wanted to exclude Shisui from that sphere of his life, but rather because that time, he knew that Gaara was not a student like everyone else. There was something different and talking about him in front of his cousin would expose him. It would’ve meant to admit that the red-haired ghost has dangerously struck him.

“Everything’s fine. We’ve only met once, so… we’ll see.” Itachi left the conversation hanging, like a funambulist on a rope soaked in gasoline.

Shisui lit another cigarette and observed him attentively between his first puffs of smoke. It wasn’t exactly Itachi’s style to respond that way, who knew almost everything about a person at first or second glance and who never avoided to inform Shisui of his conclusions. Apparently, there had been something different, but he wasn’t ready to talk to him about it and Shisui won’t force him. That was not how things worked between them: they were each other’s islands, that special place where they could be themselves without masks or impositions.

Shisui exhaled another puff of smoke, observing the growing flux of people towards one of the back doors, and said after stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, “It seems to be starting. I still have to place my bet.”

Itachi finished his last mouthful of whiskey and stood up in turn, inspecting the discreet groups of people who casually entered from an anonymous staff door. He knew where they were headed and what they were looking for. He didn’t feel like judging them since he was going towards their same direction as well, or better: it was him, along with the others, to have created not only that place but also what people secretly needed. Behind the façade of a rather ambiguous bar, much more was hidden: there were a lot more doors in the back that led to secrets, dreams and aspirations that ordinary people could never know or understand.

Shisui and Itachi headed towards the back of the bar together. They slightly nodded at a bulky guard who was assigned to take care of that exit and who knew every face that walked through that realm of shadows. They silently treaded the bare corridor with scraped wallpaper, chipped tiles on the floor and flickering neon lights. Eventually they accessed a trapdoor, opened by another man who had just stopped two other people to personally inspect them with a brusque zeal he was abundantly paid for.

They started to hear people’s elated yells and began descending the claustrophobic metal stairs as they held onto a rough and trembling handrail, surrounded by continuous semi-darkness and a suffocating smell of sweat, blood and dust. Not everyone could brace themselves for that whiff of staleness and dizzying immersion in chaos. From time to time there would even be someone who went up the stairs again to attempt holding in their vomit.

But it surprisingly didn’t take much to get used to it, shut one’s olfactory receptors and proceed towards that enormous yet suffocating basement, blending in a fanatical or even drunkenly mad crowd gathered around a gigantic metal cage that delimited an arena covered in sand and illuminated by spotlights placed all around its perimeter.

The two cousins glanced around and found what they were searching for in a corner of the hall: the betting stall, Kakuzu’s personal sanctuary, the Accountant who pulled the strings and administered all the revenues coming from their multiple and illegal activities. Pushing through the crowd, they arrived at destination and briefly talked to Kakuzu to know how the night was going in detail. After all, they weren’t there just to have fun, but also ensure that their investments were going well as expected.

Their dark-haired _colleague_ eyed them with a satisfied expression, a smile stretching the scars he had at the angles of his mouth and that furrowed his cheeks, resulting in a perennial smile on that otherwise serious face. He informed them that things were going quite well there, and the two Uchiha could verify it with their own eyes: there was a great turmoil, frantic noises, and excitement. Pure and primordial excitement that only unleashed in front of blood and violence, like in circuses of ancient times where men fought wild animals. And the same thing happened there, too. Only that two individuals of the most dangerous species were up against each other this time: _human beings_.

It was just a preliminary match, a warm up, yet the tension was already palpable: it could be felt like something dense and sticky that remained glued on the skin and soaked every pore, entering in the body and infecting whoever came into contact with it.

All the agitation of that night was also due to the fact that their champion, Juugo, would fight the ace of a nearby city who was said to be powerful but equally underhanded. Therefore, it wouldn’t have been the usual internal fight, but a much bigger and juicier business. The probability that Juugo would die that night was very high.

The two Uchiha obviously placed their bet on their champion and tucked away their receipt while the Accountant grabbed the money and placed it almost reverentially in the safe, arranging it tidily and extremely carefully. Kakuzu had a real and obsessive love for cash.

Meanwhile another _colleague_ had approached them, the blond lunatic Deidara, who looked at the already empty cage with apparent indifference now that the preliminary match ended. He observed that expanse of bloodied sand with his clear eyes and creepy, fixed gaze that then shifted to the two cousins. After a moment, he walked away without uttering a word.

“You finally got here. Let’s move closer to the arena, we’re late and I have to make the opening speech.” Yahiko, a rather tall and authoritarian man despite his orange hair and numerous facial piercings, was the one to speak to the Uchiha.

For the criminal world, he was the leader of that freshly appeared organization of a few years called the Akatsuki, although the truth was something else. In fact, it was Itachi and Shisui’s idea to create that exceptional society that was necessary to achieve their goals: they were the real leaders in the shadows, but only a very limited circle of collaborators knew it.

“Well, are you not the boss? The honor and duty are all yours,” Shisui commented with a certain amount of irony. He loved teasing his usually impassive friend and their rock who was so serious and loyal to him and the organization. If it weren’t for that man and his indestructible faith in them, they would’ve hardly reached certain peaks.

Yahiko did not deny it that time either.

He slightly curved his lips in a hint of a smile and shook his head saying, “You and your loudmouth. Be careful, my lawyer, or you’ll die with a laughter on your lips,” he prophesied, making the Uchiha in question – who found a similar prospect impossible – laugh, unlike Itachi who had never excluded that eventuality thanks to his usual and cold reasoning, just like he didn’t exclude it for himself after all.

The two cousins stayed in a slightly isolated spot near the edge of the arena, while Yahiko and the other organization’s leader headed towards the center. Their colleague managed to bring silence with a single movement of his arm before beginning to speak in a clear and powerful voice.

“Thank you all for being here tonight. I’ll just clarify a couple of things for newcomers before leaving you to the match.” Encouraging whistles started blowing in many points of the hall. “What happens here, stays here. Everything is permitted in the ring, even death. Bets can be placed until ten minutes before the beginning of a match, and no fights between spectators will be allowed… Otherwise the Undertaker will intervene in person, and you won’t like it. I give my thanks to Taito-gumi, our future business partners, for being here tonight… Enjoy!”

After these words, he left the arena for the two fighters, gladly moving away from the spotlight. He reached a taller and more muscular grey-haired man – the Undertaker in fact – who was standing near the small gate of the cage, and together with him Yahiko prepared himself to watch the fight, ready to intervene in case of problems or announce the end of the match.

The protagonists of the night entered, welcomed like two actual rock stars. It wasn’t hard to imagine why: the audience that assisted those types of entertainment wished to see only one thing: _blood_. Even better if it was spilled and spiced with a healthy dose of violence. And that night, both fighters were famous in the underworld of illegal fights for their explosive strength and fierce skills in counterattacking their opponent.

Still, unmoving and with his arms crossed, Itachi observed their champion who would definitely beat any challenger, no matter how strong the latter could be. He saw Juugo sitting on a stool in a corner with apparent tranquility; his smooth, electric hair that could barely cover his burly neck; his large shoulders and athletic body that seemed able to lift the world. His misleading eyes – for the feeling of peace they normally exuded – were as hard as marble that night, fixed on his opponent and somehow unfamiliar, almost as if, beyond them, a beast hidden in the shadows was waiting to brutally come out in the open.

“Juugo,” Itachi murmured thoughtfully. “You need this, just like these people need you.” 

Almost as a confirm of those words, he heard the crowd explode in a roar of acclamation when the gong rang, and the two fighters stood on their feet.

Juugo smugly stepped forward, without attempting any feints or trying to protect himself, a sign that he was truly at his limit that night: his beast had been resting for too long and it wouldn’t have cared about anything until it was satisfied. For the beast, pain didn’t exist, endured blows didn’t matter. The monster was indestructible, tireless, and made Juugo strong. It was his shield against life’s harshness, but also his doom and weakness.

The Rock remained faithful to his fame that night as well: the fight was spectacular. The crowd applauded him as if a new messiah had come to spread the seed of madness rather than love. And that fatal instant, in which Juugo’s large fist hit his opponent’s temple where blood gushed out, represented the moment of harmony and catharsis. The crowd went crazy and ecstatic while a long-awaited peace finally landed on the standing fighter. His eyes relaxed and returned candid and clear. The beast had been fed once again, and Juugo had saved him from himself.

***

Usually houses reflected their owner’s tastes, habits and sometimes even their essence. They represented a safe haven, a shell to return to at the end of a day, even just for a few hours, throwing the mask worn for other people to be themselves again.

 _Shisui’s apartment_ , Itachi thought as he entered with his cousin, _only reflects a part of him_.

It was large and modern with a few shiny, high-quality furniture and an electric fireplace that had never been switched on and was replaced by normal heating that activated automatically.

Shisui’s modern but not impersonal taste was present among those beautiful furnishings and the hall’s elegance, the spotless and unutilized kitchen, his large bedroom with a built-in closet.

But Shisui was also something else beyond his determination, spirit of initiative and enterprise: nothing in his house could reflect the most beautiful and intriguing part of his personality.

And paradoxically, no matter how spacious and magnificent that apartment was, Itachi has only had the occasion to visit it very few times because both of them preferred staying away from their normal life, as if they feared being contaminated by it.

That night, after the meeting and hours of talking with one of the leading spokespeople of a criminal organization in another city that wanted to expand their goals, it was a liberation for Itachi finally being able to hang his jacket in the foyer, sitting on a leather couch that still smelled new and not having to care about anyone or calculate their words.

Without saying anything, Shisui placed a glass of whiskey on the small table in front of his cousin and took a glass for himself. He definitely didn’t need to ask what Itachi wanted or needed. He knew it well because they desired and needed the same things.

Sitting by his side, Shisui rubbed his tired eyes with lazy and almost distracted movements. He took a sip before lighting a cigarette and asked after offering one to his cousin, “What do you think about our new associates? How long will everything last before they try to screw us?”

They were all sharks in that world, everyone tried to devour each other and they had to keep their guards up to avoid false steps. After all, the Akatsuki was not a big fish yet.

“Hard to tell. They won’t betray us until it’s convenient for them, but we’ll exploit this alliance to the last resource. Until then, we need to make sure to always give them something, and then who knows… _We_ may be the ones to dump them if they become useless to us,” Itachi replied with a hint of a smile before lighting the cigarette that was offered to him.

Drinking and smoking; the usual, classic vices. After years and after that life it was difficult to see them under that perspective anymore. They became normality and the comforting gesture that accompanied their dialogues.

With his cigarette between his lips and hair still tied in a ponytail, Itachi stood up and went to open the magnificent French window by a few centimeters that was entirely made of glass and that led to a large terrace. Beyond it, frantic lights of the city by night sparkled.

Sitting on the couch, with the switched off fireplace in front, wine glasses and an ashtray on the small table, it was possible to discern those lights and the frantic life that continued incessantly a few hours to dawn: people who returned home after hours of working or partying or who went out to immerse themselves in their routine. There would’ve never been some quiet.

While Itachi was standing near the glass pane on which his own image was barely reflected, blurred by the semi-darkness inside and the brightness outside, Shisui was sitting and discerned Itachi's smoke dissolving in the sky like thin clouds that escaped to the universe from that narrow opening, calmly smoking in turn. He also observed that external view of the world they wanted to control, possess, grasp in their hands, feel its rotten heart beating and tighten their grips until nothing remained. That was their latent desire concealed by their nihilistic hearts, sealed by a promise they made years ago.

Shisui briefly roamed in that maze of memories, how they were young and desperate! But despair had been a good thing, it forced them to leave their shells and take the reins of their own life, and now they were exactly where they wanted to be… And their grandiose plans would definitely succeed sometime in the future.

Shisui saw Itachi turning his back on him, his close-fitting shirt that outlined his lean build, his fit legs covered in plain jeans and his pale, bare feet on the cold floor. Shisui stubbed out his cigarette and silently approached him. He went behind Itachi, leaning a hand on the window frame beside him as he let the fingers of his other hand comb through Itachi’s low ponytail, fascinatingly observing how his fingers would be swallowed by that dark mass.

“Would you rather be somewhere else?” he whispered, observing the city stretching out at their feet.

Glimpsing his cousin’s reflection on the glass pane, Itachi simply responded, “No.”

For once, none of them had to run away. They were the only ones in that beautiful but barely visited apartment, deluding themselves that they were leading a normal life. Itachi would’ve never left, otherwise losing a rare occasion to be there. He felt Shisui’s breath on his neck, his fingers between his hair, the proximity of their bodies and he liked it, just like how he liked the aftertaste of cigarette and alcohol mixed with the fresh, night air.

He slowly turned around and placed a hand on Shisui’s neck like a claw. They stared at each other’s dark eyes for a moment, just one, before Itachi dragged him along, kissing him with a violence that contrasted with his aristocratic face.

It wasn’t a romantic or timid kiss. It was passionate, without preambles, embarrassments or doubts typical of high schoolers. They both lost their composure, leaving their primordial instincts of attraction to rule the game. Their mouth and tongue connected while Itachi’s hand still stubbornly surrounded his lover’s neck, maybe protectively or perhaps possessively.

Itachi thought about Shisui’s beauty, how he loved his wavy hair that wasn’t too long, his big eyes, his soft lips that he will bite once he lost his control. He took a step forward as they continued to kiss each other, and his understanding cousin barely stepped back. With a rapid movement, Shisui loosened Itachi’s hair tie and threw it on the floor. It was the first of many steps that would lead them to lay themselves bare to each other that night, simply being themselves with a view of a city in flames.

Itachi then gently pushed Shisui on the couch with a touch of his hand, a touch on that chest that pulsated with life.

And like the soft fall of a snowflake, Shisui let himself fall on his back on the leather expanse of the sofa. And he never evaded Itachi’s gaze, ever.

He saw Itachi on his feet, his loose hair similar to rivers of ink that flowed beyond his diaphanous neck, his open arms, his closed fists of who had to fight against the world. The city’s lights shone around his figure, absorbed by the shadows of the room: white, golden, red, splendid and unaware of the passionate fire that would arise in the darkness.

Shisui continued to admire Itachi, a splendid gem set in a frame of artificial glow, unable to avert his gaze for the life of him. Many thoughts flashed in his mind and all of them were about the person in front of him. The person he would never be able to define in any way: Itachi wasn’t a brother, nor a friend, not even a cousin and definitely not a lover. He was all of that but much more, they were each other’s pillar, and no word would be enough to define their relationship. He stared at him intensely again with his own dark eyes, and as Itachi approached him with small, slow steps among the blazing lights, the myth of the phoenix came to his mind. He curved his lips at that thought, deciding that it suited them both perfectly: they were reborn from their own ashes and would then envelop the world in flames, to die and be born again.

But Itachi was already in front of him and any other thought was swept away by the strength of instinct and passion.

Sitting up, Shisui stretched an arm to raise Itachi’s shirt and laid his face on his lean stomach with unexpected delicacy, shutting his tired eyes and intensely inhaling the smell of his skin. Beyond the odor of cigarettes and the city, _that_ smell distinctly arrived in his nostrils. Shisui would never forget it, nor confuse it with something else: that was the smell of his world, his home, his hope. He pressed his cheek deeper against Itachi’s abdomen and slowly started to kiss and lick his candid skin, feeling light spasms of the toned muscles underneath and he smiled, satisfied with that reaction.

Itachi watched him almost lovingly, beyond the serious gaze that he could never really cast aside, and realized how Shisui made him feel good, isolating him in their personal bubble where they could ignore the rest of the world.

He felt pleasantly surprised, even important, when he felt Shisui’s face leaning on his stomach with an almost childish but actually deeply protective gesture. And then his kisses, the way he softly and almost mischievously licked his skin… Why did it take so little to make him feel different?

For a few seconds, he instinctively turned back in time to a few hours prior when, before leaving, he was at Ino’s house. To make her happy, sex was a palliative and excuse to justify his absence. Maybe he couldn’t bring her happiness, but for a few hours at least, she would convince herself to be actually worth something. In seeing Shisui, Itachi saw Ino again, paradoxically also sitting on a couch but in another house, with her loose, blonde hair, her light eyes that looked at Itachi in turn, just like how he looked at Shisui. But there was something different in that gaze: he had never discerned love in them, but rather despair and an insane fear that one day, the boyfriend of her dreams would disappear in front of her and become the ghost of a fruitless relationship.

And he realized that Ino had never rested her head on his stomach, nor stopped to hear his breathing or his heartbeats. She demanded but never gave anything, believing to have the right to be highly considered just because they were engaged. And every day she hoped that Itachi would search for her, stay with her, without ever acting on it directly, in an irrational fear of doing something wrong that would irretrievably take him away.

Itachi, in turn, had never touched Ino’s hair with the possessive affection he was dedicating to Shisui instead. Yes, he had sex with her hours ago, he fucked her with ostensible passion that the girl asked for to feel desired, but… He hadn’t _loved_ her or cuddled with her, not even for a moment. And he’d felt empty in Ino’s fragrant bed, alone and distant even though he was clinging to her flushed arms attempting to hold onto him instead.

Shisui’s delicate caresses took him back to the present, and with a slow movement, now concentrated on how Shisui was touching him, he took off his shirt, throwing it at his feet with carefree nonchalance. Then he placed his hand on Shisui’s head, his fingers in his dark locks, barely opening his mouth when his cousin untied his belt, making his pants slide down after pulling them down without too much care.

He hinted at a satisfied smile and awaited what would happen next.

Shisui then raised his provocative and possibly challenging gaze, and Itachi lightly tugged at his hair in reply, asking, “What’s the matter, do you want to stop now?”

Instinctively and full of emotions, Shisui slightly licked his dry lips and replied, “I could always stop.” But in saying that he’d already slipped his thumbs in the elastic band of Itachi’s boxers, letting his fingers lightly brush against Itachi’s side. Then he continued, “Or I could take off your underwear, see you naked and make sure that deep down, you’re a human being like everyone else on this motherfucking planet.”

And that was what he did.

Millimeter after millimeter, Shisui lowered Itachi’s underwear and the more he did, the more Itachi clawed his damned hair with desperate expectation, as if he could drag Shisui towards him and speed up time like magic. In the end Shisui exposed his glans, his swollen cock and his already useless boxers that were completely removed, finally leaving Itachi naked and clearly aroused, yet still proud in his posture like someone who didn’t have a reason to feel embarrassed or afraid for that state of nudity, with his erection and the desire to fuck as if he returned to be a horny teen after discovering sex.

Shisui stopped procrastinating for the sake of excitement and love. He took Itachi’s penis with a hand, while the other grabbed a hard and tense buttock. Starting from the base of the penis, he licked it before arriving at its head. He twirled his tongue around Itachi’s glans and licked it again before slowly and unhurriedly putting it in his mouth, his lips gradually sliding down, filling himself with that body part swollen for arousal and with blood flowing rapidly, pumped to its head from the hammering heart in Itachi’s chest.

Yes, Itachi could really forget the rest of the world. He could only see Shisui bending over him with his erect dick in his mouth, his hand that rubbed it, his slightly dripping saliva and his tongue that got back to licking it at times, triggering thousands of different sensations that made him pant quietly in the solitude of that glistening apartment.

Shisui continued to pleasure him with absolute zeal as if nothing else existed beyond them, almost as if his very life depended on how hard he sucked that firm cock or how deeply he could encircle it with his lips. One of his hands continued to possessively clench an ass cheek, the other rubbing the base of Itachi’s penis and now hard and swollen testicles resembling two delicious fruits that he brushed with his tongue. He raised his gaze and observed Itachi’s beautiful face twisted by pleasure, accompanied by the tug he felt at his hair.

Itachi’s eyes were shut, his head slightly bent back and his mouth open, leaving exquisite and excited moans to escape, making Shisui impatient to hear them become pants and hoarse screams. Because of this, he slowly licked the entire length of Itachi’s penis, from its base to its head, where he tasted the first drops of precum. Satisfied, he lightly bit his tender and swollen glans with his lips, smiling when he heard him gasp and emit a louder moan as Itachi clawed his shoulders but, without giving him time to recover, he shoved his dick in his mouth again and moved faster. He continued to eye Itachi like a privileged audience of a marvelous show, and when he noticed his face relaxing and his cock twitching at the same time, Shisui removed his mouth. He continued to rub Itachi’s cock with his hand so he could observe every expression that painted his face during his orgasm – a small death –, those few seconds that seemed to last hours, that ephemeral pleasure for which one was willing to do the craziest things. And Shisui was ready to go against the whole world for Itachi, just to have him, just to continue being by his side, just for those few moments in which he could observe him without any kind of defense.

With Itachi’s raspy moans still echoing in his ears, Shisui clearly felt his warm liquid squirting on his face and chest, dripping on the floor. The silence of the room was only interrupted by Itachi’s heavy panting.

Shisui quickly collected his sperm and, as he stared at Itachi’s eyes that were slightly clouded by pleasure, he brought his wet fingers between Itachi’s ass cheeks, making their way into his body.

“I want to stay inside you…” he whispered in a raspy and aroused voice, bringing his face near Itachi’s dick that he licked again.

Itachi knew that Shisui didn’t need to ask for consent, just like he didn’t need it in turn. He bit his lip, ignoring his hair that was sliding on his chest like black waves on a white paper, and let those fingers invade him, triggering his sensorial receptors with his saliva and sperm that acted as lubricants, making that touch capable of dilating and stimulating more pleasant, with a care that only an attentive lover could have.

That night, Itachi also wanted to feel Shisui inside him. Sometimes the opposite happened, where Itachi was the one to have complete control of the game. They often changed roles since they both hated stereotypes, impositions and schedules. Their life was already catalogued, but there was no need to follow the rules when they had sex and were alone together.

At that moment Fugaku Uchiha’s firstborn, the twisted son of one of the most renowned businessmen in Japan, wanted to abandon himself in Shisui’s warm hug and feel truly important for someone who could make him forget his turmoil and premonition in those days, someone who could take him away from Gaara and the dark feelings the latter caused him that were yet to be understood.

When Shisui’s fingers slowly slid out, slightly brushing his buttocks and damping them with a few drops of saliva, Itachi saw his cousin standing up and taking off his shirt, exposing his bare chest as well. Itachi let his hand surround his neck, pulling him towards himself and sliding further down, caressing his side and touching Shisui’s swollen dick that was still covered by the fabric of his pants.

Staring at his cousin, Itachi unbuttoned and lowered his zip with a rapid but not too hasty movement, although Shisui wasn’t watching Itachi. Instead, he observed his thin and elegant fingers shifting his button and sliding down his pants and underwear. 

Full of pleasure and excitedly aware of being watched, Shisui enjoyed seeing those same fingers brushing and rubbing his cock even more, realizing that Itachi’s dick was also erect, while lust made both of the lovers breathe quicker, with an accelerated heartbeat and drier throats that weren’t thirsty for water.

They kissed each other with passion and ardor, their bodies were brought closer, their muscles in tension, their skin sweaty, their hands touching, feeling and fondling their partner’s every centimeter, like if it was the only way to truly get to know and ingrain each other in their memories. There were no compliments, gentle gestures or spaces for ostentatious movements afterwards.

Impatient and determined, Shisui made Itachi turn around, the latter propping his hands on the glass pane, his gaze directed towards the city’s expanse that was contaminated by both their reflections.

Then Shisui went inside Itachi. He took his cock in hand while his other one excitedly clawed Itachi’s side and started penetrating him with rapid thrusts right away. Because he loved sliding all the way inside him, aware that it would cause him a little pain in the beginning, before feeling his sphincter slightly dilating, his muscles accepting the intrusion, and his hole, moistened by saliva and sperm, in which he could go deeper and deeper.

Itachi emitted a few raspy and deep moans as his fingertips slid on the glass from time to time that was clouded with his irregular breathing. That veil made the city lights look confusing and insignificant, like a golden whirlwind that swirled in his head. He felt his sweaty hair sticking to his neck, Shisui’s warm breath and his hands that were now touching him.

“It’s just you and me, Itachi,” Shisui whispered in his ear. “We can fuck again, I can suck your dick until you come and penetrate you until I wreck your ass, hear you moan and feel you alive, not as a programmed machine they made you become. Fuck the others. The world can burn, explode and blow to a million pieces, but I’d still want to stay with you, just you, while everything else out there bursts into flames.”

 _What_ is _the rest of the world?_ Itachi wondered, but he didn’t care because it didn’t exist to him.

Meanwhile Shisui’s hand slid down to his dick and masturbated it as he penetrated him with more rapid thrusts devoid of gentleness but full of passion and sheer arousal. Because Shisui was capable of being more instinctive than Itachi, but also more perceptive in understanding his partner and satisfying both their needs.

And despite everything, they weren’t familiar with caresses and affectionate gestures because they didn’t need them. They touched each other to feel and not run away from the other’s grip, loving each other in their own way.

They kept going that way, lost in pleasure and in their world, arriving at an intense orgasm that felt like an explosion and that, instead of bringing calm and peace, did nothing but revive the flames of their passion. They continued to make love in a futile attempt to placate the fires in their soul while the world continued to flow motionlessly, unaware of their existence.

The Earth continued its movements of rotation and revolution, and nothing that happened on its surface could shake it. Conversely, that night that was already turning into morning, the beautiful apartment became the epicenter of those two lives that were vigorously clinging to each other to reconfirm the meaning of their existence in their partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheper’s notes (translated):  
> (27/03/2017)  
>  _Hi, we’re back again with an update at last. We’re finally laying our cards on the table: Itachi and Shisui were brought together by their project to change the world they’re living in and its rules, reason why they founded the Akatsuki. They’re also connected by other aspects of their life, like their toxic sexual relationship that doesn’t allow any of them to drift apart or forget each other. What do you think about their relationship and the way we conveyed it (and most importantly the lemon)? XD  
>  Also, don’t forget to listen to David Bowie’s “Heroes”, a splendid song that portrays the two Uchiha’s heart-breaking relationship well. It fully reflects the intensity of their feelings… Yet is that really love?  
> And with this question, we bid our farewell XD Until next time!_
> 
> betta_100’s notes:  
> (07/02/2021)  
> The Akatsuki’s activities are becoming clearer, and I’m thrilled that Yahiko made his first appearance! And wow, it’s my first time experimenting with an explicit scene, but I hope it was an enjoyable read (because I certainly had fun translating it lmao-). Having said that, I’m open to corrections and constructive criticism since I’m definitely no expert (though I _have_ read a lot of smuts, lol), but in any case I hope to get better at it since there will be a lot more steamy scenes like this one. OuO


	6. Terrible Tommy

_I've built up this raging anger  
I fill my soul with foreign hate  
I got no hope left inside me  
There ain't no joy left to give  
(Ryan Horne)_

The sun was shining bright that morning, a clear omen of a summer that would be particularly scorching and lengthy. Fortunately, there was a light, fresh breeze that brought relief to the unlucky people who were forced to leave the comfort of their home to venture into the urban jungle called Konoha.

Gaara was on the rooftop of his school. If he were like any other boy, he would’ve enjoyed that flavor of summer, fantasizing about all the adventures and travels that he would share with friends and girls during the summer break. Instead, he tried to shield himself from those boiling rays as much as possible and he couldn’t even appreciate the breeze that carried the sugary smell of wilted cherry blossoms, trees that he hated for their flashy color they dared showing off every year, flashy like his own colors that he equally despised. His mind wasn’t clear or serene either, it was actually particularly busy reflecting on all the recent events: it was only Monday of the third week of school, but it seemed at least three months had already passed to him.

From the night of his argument with his father and his first night outside, many others followed. Nights spent on a bench, holed up in a playhouse for kids in a park, strolling until dawn or simply laying against a door or a shop window like a tramp, those that could be seen in the corner of the streets with an empty bottle in hand and eyes that were too full of pain and madness.

He didn’t want to stay at home. He dreaded it.

He feared feeling submerged, suffocated like that night and snapping at his father, or even at his siblings, the only people he could feel some form of affection and interest for. He felt more and more overwhelmed by his dark side and always on the thin line of violence, but he didn’t want to give up. He mustn’t give up, more for his sister’s sake than his own. He’d passed afternoons studying in the library and staying at his afterschool club, the only moments when he was forced to interact with other people, though he found it less difficult and demanding than before. However, when it started to get dark, he would be forced to choose between continuing to wander around or returning home, and even if he chose the latter, it was only for a short while: just the time for a shower and a change of clothes, yet it was enough to make him encounter Temari more than once and argue with her.

Actually, the day before – the Sunday when he locked himself in his room without ever leaving – Temari had exasperatedly threatened to tear the door down, forcing Gaara to open it and argue with her for the umpteenth time.

She was worried and concerned, Gaara understood it perfectly, but he couldn’t reassure her. He couldn’t tell her that everything would be alright and that she should keep calm, because he himself was the first one to feel anxious, and his only option was to distance himself as much as possible to avoid hurting her. So, he’d yelled at her to leave him alone and ran away, escaping from her words and clumsy affection.

Now he found himself on that sunny rooftop, skipping his last class because he was tired, he just couldn’t stay in the classroom any longer and feel watched, subject of other’s sneers. Exactly that morning he’d caught a blonde girl – he believed her name was Ino – snickering after she’d passed by him.

He heard the bell announce the end of that school day and the beginning of afterschool clubs, but he absolutely did not feel like going: he’d rather stay here forever, letting the merciless sun hit him until nothing remained of him anymore.

The thought of the sun made Naruto cross his mind, the most optimistic and invasive person he’s ever met. Naruto and Shikamaru were the only ones to casually talk to him and that still left him perplexed. He couldn’t understand if it was another subtle, cruel and incomprehensible torture, but for now it didn’t feel too unpleasant to stay with them, despite Naruto not being able to shut up for a moment.

He barely curved his lips in a trace of a smile. It was just a moment, but in that same instant he decided to stand up and go to his club. He’d have enough time to overthink that night anyway.

He descended the stairs of the rooftop and, just as he was about to enter the corridor facing the classrooms, he met Naruto who bumped into him and narrowly ran into him with his overly excited manners that made him resemble a tornado more than a human being.

Gaara instinctively took a step back, eyeing the blond suspiciously before asking, “What are you doing here?”

Naruto scratched his head, taking a moment to recover his breath since his leg still didn’t want to fully cooperate, and replied, “What do you mean _what am I doing here_? All the club members have started to gather and we were worried because you weren’t there, so I went searching for you!”

Gaara was speechless. Dumbstruck, tired and exhausted, that day when he thought nothing could make him smile, he found himself stretching his thin lips into one instead. At the same time, his stomach emptied and saturated with feelings he didn’t know and couldn’t comprehend instead. For the first time he felt important, truly important. He disappeared because he knew that nobody would ever go and find him, but all of a sudden a scant group of people who were strangers just a few weeks ago had noticed his absence and done something to search for him. 

Why? Was this friendship?

Naruto then took the redhead by his arm and distracted him from his thoughts, questions and words. He recognized loneliness and pain in Gaara, feeling instinctive affection and empathy for that pale, skinny boy with a perennially glowering gaze like someone who had to fight against the world every moment of his life. Naruto didn’t know why he took a liking to him and why he was challenging his unsociable personality.

Then, after dragging him along and waiting for some dry insult in response – which was typical of Gaara –, Naruto abruptly turned his gaze to his aspiring friend and found him… relaxed: he wasn’t smiling yet but seemed happier. Then his questions were answered: sometimes it took little, like a considerate gesture, to make people less sad. And if that person was Gaara, then Naruto could consider himself proud for having accomplished something so important.

And Gaara was aware that sometimes it was necessary to empty his head from every thought and run along the classrooms, the streets, the world’s infinite places, maybe bump into a student along the way, but still go forward, without wondering when he would arrive at a destination that he didn’t even know. Not yet at least, and it was fine for that day.

***

Accompanied by the last sun rays, Gaara was returning home. In the wake of the positive emotions he felt that afternoon – he’d even beaten Naruto in a chess game, not that one needed a lot of mastery though –, he considered himself rather serene to be able to spend the night in his own bed. Not that it made a big difference for his perennial insomnia, but it would definitely be more pleasant and comfortable than the nights spent outside.

He opened the front door without making a sound, feeling slightly frightened now, but the house seemed silent and empty, so he hurried to enter with relief and go up the stairs to head towards his own room. Maybe he’d even take a long bath. Yeah, it was just what he needed!

His tranquility was unfortunately short-lived, because after a few steps he was in front of his siblings, as if they were waiting for him behind the corner on purpose. He tried to accelerate his steps to reach the first stair and avoid them, but he already knew it was useless: he was too far away and they were facing him before he could escape to his room. Realizing that he was on the verge of being ambushed, he couldn’t do anything but turn around and go back to where he came from, but Kankuro promptly and quickly placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t go, we need to have a serious talk,” Kankuro said.

Gaara felt painful knots in his empty stomach at those words, and the premonition of a disaster hit him.

“What do you want me to say?” he replied.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Temari scoffed, offended. “Maybe like why you never come home every goddamn night and why you wander around like a beggar? Is that how you’ve been taught? Anything can happen while you’re out there but _no_ , you just don’t get it!”

Straightforward and impulsive as usual, Temari spat out all her worry, anger and frustration at Gaara without considering his emotional precariousness. The latter slightly hunched his shoulders under the weight of that accusation.

“Why, should I consider myself safe in here?” Gaara countered sharply, since he’d ironically received the deepest scars at home, in a familiar environment where one assumed should be everyone’s safe haven.

Temari widened her eyes, hurt. “You ugly, arrogant prick! Who do you even think you are? We were worried about you! I’ve done everything to stay with you to distract you from your bad days and overcome them… Is this the regard you have for us, for who actually cares for you?!”

She knew she wasn’t the perfect sister, but she really tried for Gaara. At that moment she didn’t feel guilty for having poured her failures on him at all, blinded by an unhealthy wish that his ungrateful brother would disappear. Although definitely less than her younger brother, Temari was also oppressed by an authoritarian and imposing father, yet she wasn’t acting like Gaara.

Kankuro glanced at her but didn’t reply, not yet at least. If he could avoid getting involved in a heated argument, he would abstain himself from having a say and adding fuel to the fire. He let her vent and observed his brother who looked like he was about to explode in turn.

“I’ve never asked you anything!” Gaara in fact immediately shouted back. He heard his ears ringing with his blood flowing rapidly, hurt by what his sister threw back in his face: those painful and dark moments she talked about had never actually gone away.

Temari had always appeared to save him, almost as if she had a special radar. She’d been the only light that brightened his world of flickering shadows, but what could a single flame ever do against an entire universe of darkness? And now, those words mentioning what his sister had done for him hit him like a slap in the face, like if he had to reciprocate her just as much, and like if their relationship was a barter and not a mere gift of love.

“Why the fuck did you trouble yourself so much with me if I’m so annoying to you now?! You could’ve just left me alone!” Gaara yelled again, feeling his brother’s grip on his shoulder tightening.

Kankuro was obviously on Temari’s side since she was the eldest sister, the only element of stability in his existence. On the contrary, Gaara had always been the opposite: right from his birth, he’d only brought chaos and misery in their lives, and Kankuro had ignored his brother’s pain, only noticing his own. He’d neglected his responsibilities towards Gaara and towards that family already close to their downfall, where Temari had been the only glue that held it together. It had been unfair to put that weight only on his sister’s shoulders, no matter how large and strong they were. She was only one year older than Kankuro; she wasn’t mature enough and shouldn’t have taken on certain responsibilities. Yet he’d always locked himself in his own world and only left in rare occasions like these. He could only support Temari for a twisted sense of loyalty.

“Gaara, now you’re crossing the line!” Kankuro reiterated. He just couldn’t calm Temari down and put himself in Gaara’s shoes, because he also felt stuck to those words full of rage and resentment.

His sister didn’t mince her words and yelled at the top of her lungs instead, “Then go fuck yourself and die!”

“At least you won’t be a pain in the ass to me anymore!” Gaara retaliated in a surge of negative feelings. He obviously wasn’t expecting them to support him, yet he felt stupidly betrayed once again, while his deep rage, harbored in those years of silence, grew and tore him apart like an old pillow that was punched too many times.

He’d distanced himself from them to avoid hurting them and dragging them along his negative spiral, but his siblings continued to not understand and blame him for it… So, what had all that been for?

In an impulse of sheer rage, he smacked Kankuro’s hand away and shoved him against the wall with a surprising speed and force, where Kankuro got badly hit and was gasping in pain. He then turned towards his sister, with his fists so tight that his short nails were leaving deep marks on his palms. He scrutinized her with all the anger and resentment that still flowed in his veins and that showed him the truth in all its abominations; maybe he would continue to yell at her, maybe he’d pounce on her or maybe he’d walk away from their lives.

But he would never know what he would choose, because he felt violently yanked from behind and a punch on his kidneys made him collapse on the floor.

“You wretched disgrace! Do you perhaps want to kill your siblings because at least they’re normal compared to you?” Gaara heard his father shout, who meanwhile returned home unnoticed due to the yelling and who also witnessed what had happened. “Why were you born?! We’ve never wanted or welcomed you. Your mother was the only one who decided to keep you, but for me you weren’t supposed to be here, and look at what happened to her! Why was she the one to die while a monster like you is still alive? Why?!” he yelled again, shaking him, while Gaara’s head repeatedly hit against the hard floor and filled itself with those words dripping with sheer hatred like from a poisonous snake’s fangs.

And just like poison, it entered his blood circulation, paralyzing him and filling him with pain, leaving him waiting for the relief of death.

Kankuro had frozen to watch his brother collapsing on the floor like a defenseless ragdoll filled with punches by a parent who was in turn blinded by an unhealthy resentment. He couldn’t react, every single muscle fought to keep his terrorized immobility.

It was Temari who jumped on their father like a whirlwind instead, despite the fear that stopped her breathing, to protect a brother she couldn’t understand and that couldn’t comprehend her in turn.

If she hadn’t intervened, Gaara would have died, and every attack of that insane father was madness. That house and that life were pure madness.

“Stop it! Stop it right now!”

She grabbed Rasa by his arms, but he shoved her away, blinded and intolerant.

It was then that Kankuro woke up from his paralysis and managed to block his father with his own weight, even if he was terrified of his eyes and his gaze.

Temari clutched her brother and never like then had Gaara seemed so small and light to her with smashed lips, swollen eyes and a nosebleed. She somehow tried to help him stand up again and drag him away from there, but Gaara, still conscious, pushed her away with persistent stubbornness and staggered forward a bit, leaning on a piece of furniture in the foyer where his surge of rage had taken place.

“Get out!” his father shouted, out of his mind and almost straining his voice, with veins on his neck that were throbbing and his insane eyes that instilled fucking terror. “Out of my sight!”

And Gaara obeyed.

Silently and with small steps, he left after a last glance at the room. He left behind his sister’s screams that begged him to stay, a brother that had more or less ignored most of his life, an oppressing father who had attempted to reclaim Gaara’s life and who had finally externalized his feelings.

The front door closed with a dull thud, sounding more like the lid of a coffin, and the dark night laid its cape on Gaara’s shoulders.

He continued to wander like a sleepwalker, trying to ignore the stabbing pain he felt a bit everywhere and pressed a tissue on his still bleeding nose. He walked and attempted not to think about anything else, but it was impossible. There had been too much violence and pain that night. He felt tears sliding down his pale eyes, but they didn’t bring comfort, only grief. His father’s words incessantly hammered in his head, they hurt him more than his punches, made him feel less than a nobody and reproached him for his birth. His father was right: why did he have to come into the world? Why just to suffer like that? Would there be anything nice or good in store for him here?

No, there would only be chaos and despair, connected with the weight of his primordial sin of having unfairly taken his mother away. All that hatred and pain did nothing but fuel his anger: he felt his dark side making its way, demanding to take control… Yes, it would be better that way. He would be unhappy – though happiness had never been his –, but it would be the best choice, he’d only have to let it go, let it take the place of command. It would be so much simpler, more comforting, more pleasant to give it freedom…

“Hey dickhead! Watch where you’re fucking going! Fuck off and sober up somewhere else if you’re drunk,” yelled a passerby that Gaara accidentally bumped into.

Hearing himself being reproached that way, Gaara sprinted towards him with glinting eyes and blood marring his bruised face.

“If you want to die right now, just say it,” he hissed with a crooked smirk, looking at him without really seeing him.

But Gaara didn’t wait for an additional response or reaction. Though with blackened eyes and blood still staining his body, it was the only thing he needed: any kind of excuse to finally lose control, and he did it with great style. He dumped all the psychological and physical abuse he endured that bloody night on that stranger. Punch after punch, he pounced on him with a whirlwind’s blind rage. 

The man ended up collapsing on the ground before anyone could pass by, attempting to catch hold of that only seemingly skinny boy.

Gasping, with swollen knuckles and throbbing veins, Gaara regained consciousness, shockingly staring at the guy he’d just reduced to another bleeding pulp.

People have started to stop by and someone pointed at him. There could even be someone about to call the police.

At that point, with his head still whirling, Gaara walked away with slightly limping steps and a shattered body, supported only by an incontrollable rage that enabled him to move until then. Once again, he found himself wandering alone in a night that only brought him wickedness.

 _Or maybe_ , he reflected as he examined his dirty and wounded hands, _I am wicked_.

He couldn’t know.

Exhausted, he began walking away from the place of beating, like a killer that escaped the crime scene with labored breathing, a confused mind and no idea where to go. He only knew that he had to get out of there. Though he couldn’t distance himself too much from the victim because a stranger with grey hair, despite his young face, stopped him.

“Hey, kid. I saw what you’ve just done… You certainly have strength, despite how you look.”

Frightened by that sudden appearance, Gaara instinctively backed away as much as possible until his back hit against a wall. A stunned expression painted his face, which was unable to exert any kind of control on his countenance or actions. Everything was ruled by instinct and that atavistic part of his brain in charge of self-preservation.

“I-I… no…” Gaara furiously blabbered, his eyes trying to find a path to escape from that stranger that loomed over him. “I… didn’t…”

He attempted to deny what had happened, he _wanted_ to deny the obvious truth he carried the irrefutable proof of; a truth that terrorized him and that he would like to forget. Yes, he would like to forget and convince himself he wasn’t the one to have committed such a horrible act.

 _How is that innocent man I beat up doing?_ he wondered, while a sly smile stretched on the other’s face and ignited the embers of a fury that wasn’t fully extinguished yet.

“Go away,” Gaara then exclaimed in the wake of that emotion, looking at him surly.

But the guy with grey hair and eyes of an unsettling shade of violet didn’t seem upset by that spurt of anger. On the contrary, he continued to appear rather amused.

“Where are _you_ going looking like this instead? I know a place where we can mend your soul and, if you like letting off steam, we have a way to let you do it away from… prying eyes,” he suggested, implicitly referring to the gazes of the event’s witnesses, accusingly glaring at the culprit of that absurd and equally unmotivated beating.

“T-The soul? What the fuck are you talking about?” Gaara asked, caught by surprise by those words and the man’s tone of voice that didn’t ooze anger or contempt like he expected instead. He was confused and didn’t understand anything anymore. It seemed like he went on a roller coaster and someone made him go on the longest ride of his life. He felt like a solitary island in the middle of a whirling sea.

“And I wasn’t going anywhere anyway.” Indeed, he didn’t have a home, nor any other place to take shelter anymore, the little he possessed had been fiercely snatched away from him.

The man shrugged. He was wasting way too much time for his taste with someone who was probably more psychopathic than himself, but he instinctively knew that the boy could reveal himself to be an above par fighter if taught the right way.

Gaara had a swollen face with barely coagulated blood, a body of someone who had blown remarkable punches and a lost gaze, just like how the compass of his life had been lost a long time ago: in short, a complete misery.

The man experienced the same thing years ago, just like the other members of his group.

Sometimes punches weren’t necessarily physical, just like some bruises or wounds couldn’t necessarily be seen on the skin. In the end, one only remained with an aching shell, full of nothing but rage towards the entire universe which didn’t give a shit if that shell was struggling to breathe, and towards the pain in receiving a direct hit on the stomach or in the soul.

The illegal matches in that basement reeking of mold and sweat were nothing but the mirror of his life, just like that of the boy in front of him: people who witnessed others’ suffering with enjoyment. But in that case those bastards paid and placed bets, waiting for someone to die, lose, or give up. They would also lose something for once, every single night when they shut themselves between those filthy walls, addicted to blood and hope in winning their bet. They didn’t realize it until they would see their accounts go into the red, their wives divorcing, their children stop calling them fathers.

And it was with those words and thoughts that Hidan – man with hair similar to soiled snow – spoke to Gaara that ordinary night in an anonymous alley. And Gaara surprisingly listened to him, recovering his breath after a life in apnea, regaining his balance after that ride on a roller coaster he concluded despite himself.

Hidan looked at him satisfied, then removed his black hoodie he wore on top of a short-sleeved shirt.

“Wear this, put the hood up and give me your jacket,” he said as he handed the hoodie to Gaara. “If you really need to do these things in public, try it without your school uniform on next time.”

Gaara hurried to do as told, only then realizing the danger he’d run into. Someone could’ve recognized him and his obvious, boastful crest sewn on his jacket. Besides, there definitely were no other people with hair like his! He felt calmer with his hood pulled over his flame red hair and swollen face, finally hidden and invisible to everyone’s eyes, and hastened to follow that stranger he didn’t even know the name of, but who’d convinced him by speaking his same language.

They treaded along the roads that seemed all the same to Gaara. They only differed in the fact that they appeared more and more squalid as they gradually ventured into the degraded neighborhood where the boy had ended up a few times during his nocturnal escapes. They stopped in front of a bar that seemed more like a ruin. The walls seemed to crumble with each breeze, some bullet marks were evident, the few glass walls were so dirty that only dimly-lit forms could be vaguely discerned inside, and a rusty sign dangled on one side.

“Sliding Doors,” Gaara murmured as he read the sign, wondering if any sane person would ever willingly enter that place. But they weren’t sane, he was surer and surer about it for himself, and the grey-haired man, after picking a bleeding boy like him up from the streets, definitely couldn't be faring any better.

Slightly hesitant and with his hood more and more pulled over his eyes, Gaara followed him inside. His nostrils were immediately assaulted by a stinging stink of alcohol and cigarette that flowed like a river there. He heard his new guide respond to various greets, ignoring the questions about the newcomer instead, and they eventually arrived at the back of the bar. There, they stepped beyond a massive door and entered a room, dimly lit by flickering neon lights and eerily silent after all the ruckus in the main area.

It was a bare and even crumbling room, with walls of scraped paper and floor with chipped tiles. It was a simple crossing point looking out to a wooden door and another heavier, metallic one with a crash bar; Gaara also seemed to have discerned a trapdoor further away on the floor, but he wasn’t sure. That poorly lit and windowless room generated a certain apprehension in him: his heartbeat began to accelerate and his hands became sweaty, a part of his brain started to yell at him, asking what the hell he was doing there, how the hell he got there and that he was putting himself in serious trouble. But the other, that new side of him that started to take control from that night, silenced it.

_It’s fine, who even cares about what happens next._

“You can take off your hood now if you want,” the grey-haired man commented as he opened a large metal door.

But Gaara felt fine that way, so he kept following him in that unknown place and the door closed itself behind him with a dull thud of inexorable condemnation: there was no going back.

They treaded a few steps in what looked like an antechamber looking out to various rooms, until the head of a boy with light blue hair popped out from one of those.

“Dammit, Hidan! We’ve been waiting for you for ages, what the fuck were you doing? And who the fuck is that?” he asked, pointing at Gaara who continued to keep his head lowered.

 _Hidan_ , Gaara reflected, so that’s how the strange man that accompanied him there was called. Ironic, they’d talked about their life, but they haven’t even asked each other’s name.

Feeling accused and annoyed by the rapid series of questions, the grey-haired man replied, “A guy you’ll like very much and who beats people up like Juugo.” Then he reflected for an instant. “But admittedly I don’t know your name.”

“Gaara,” he replied plainly, hunching his shoulders.

“See, Suigetsu?” Hidan retorted, widening his arms. “Introductions are made. Now go and get me Sasori while I take him to the infirmary.”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m your servant or something, go and get him yourself!” Suigetsu complained, gritting his teeth that Gaara discovered being as sharp as those of a shark.

But before Gaara could retort and add that he didn’t need to go to the infirmary at all, despite his messed-up body and his bruised, semi-closed eyes, he was preceded by Hidan’s vulgar reply.

“Servant my dick, just go and don’t break my balls if you don’t want me to literally open your ass while experimenting with extreme fisting!”

“Go fuck yourself, Undertaker! I’m only going because the idea of biting your throat off is even grosser to me than helping you.”

Suigetsu walked away muttering, brusquely shutting one of the doors in the atrium, beyond which a corridor with other rooms could be spotted.

Hidan completely ignored him and headed towards another direction, opening a door to what looked like a rough and ready infirmary but with all the emergency tools. Judging by the quantity of bandages and surgery instruments, it seemed to be visited rather frequently.

“That’s the examination couch. Take your clothes off and let Sasori examine you, he’s our…” Hidan seemed to be searching for the right word. “ _Doctor_. Then we’ll find you a room for the night.”

Gaara kept still instead and glanced around, inspecting the medical materials, the window with lowered blinds that made the room more suffocating, drenched with the indelible odor of blood and disinfectant.

“What… what kind of place is this supposed to be?” he asked, surprised. Never in his life would he have expected to end up in a similar place. “And how many people are here?” he questioned again while only taking off his hood, thinking that the boy before definitely hadn’t been friendly. Would everyone else be like him?

“A gross place, but I like to call it home. Now stop being a pain in the ass with these fucking questions and give me my hoodie,” Hidan replied, who was not famous for his patience or his tact towards others. But he noticed how Gaara curled up even more and his face darkened at that request, as if he asked him to take off his skin instead.

The boy in fact stood still for a few moments, then slowly unzipped his hoodie and took it off, reassured by the fact to have a shirt underneath. He placed the hoodie on the back of a chair in order to avoid moving closer to the other guy and mumbled a sort of thanks. He uncomfortably turned his back on Hidan and sat on the examination couch with mixed feelings, hunching his shoulders as much as he could.

Surprisingly, Hidan didn’t say anything. He wasn’t good with words, let alone empathetic, but he never forgets. Having experienced it himself, he knew what it meant to be empty shells and wishing to be elsewhere, in another body. Because the body was a manifestation of intentions, what one used to be, what one endured in life and how one loved oneself. And Hidan could sense from beyond Gaara’s mistreated shirt that his body was a declaration of the most disastrous intent that existed. That was why Gaara didn’t want anybody to look at him, for fear that someone could read those lines made of scars and bruises.

Time passed slowly in that silence packed with untold words and repressed feelings, a silence broken only by their breathing and the ticking of a clock hung on the wall.

The door eventually opened without a sound and a short young man entered, making Gaara widen his eyes.

His hair! His hair was flame red, impossible! He didn’t believe he would ever be able to see someone with his same red hair in the flesh, even though the newcomer’s one was lighter, faker and possibly dyed, Gaara's stomach was in knots after spotting it.

“Well, well. Who have you brought, Hidan?” the doctor greeted in a bored and indifferent voice that reflected the motionless expression on his face. “They did a nice little job,” he added, shaking his head as he observed Gaara who wanted to shrink more and more at those words as if he wanted to disappear. Gaara didn’t like being observed with such intensity.

That watered-down version of a doctor with a bizarre appearance leaned closer to Gaara, setting some bandages, gauzes and other necessary tools to stitch up potential wounds beside him.

It was then that the boy had the possibility to scrutinize him up close, in a way that his initial doubt found an answer: that hair was a too artificial color, so it was definitely dyed. As the doctor inspected him in turn, he instinctively wondered for what absurd reason someone would want to cover their normality, proudly spitting their diversity at the rest of the world. And Gaara felt stupid because in a situation like that, with a swollen and aching face, he still wasted time to ask questions about human nature, which was so unpredictable and hopelessly twisted.

“Try and put him back on his feet, Sasori. Someone seriously battered him, but when this small guy fights he’s a fucking whirlwind!”

“He won’t last long if he doesn’t know how to defend himself,” the doctor retorted, putting on a pair of gloves.

Accused, Gaara replied in a harsh tone, “Don’t talk about things you don’t know, and don’t touch me.”

Sasori contemplated him with almost apathetic and possibly empty eyes, like those of someone who didn’t have a soul to return to anymore, and answered with plain rationality, “I can evaluate potential injuries by touching you. If it weren’t for my job, I would hardly be interested in approaching you. Now, if you would please take off your shirt.”

Gaara fell silent, caught off-guard by that reply. Usually, in those rare occasions where he would ask someone to stay away, they would promptly step back, definitely not retort or give him orders! Gaara was used to instill fear and mistrust in people, but he started to realize that things were probably different there, if not even the opposite.

“They’ve only hit me in the face, there’s no need to remove my shirt.” Gaara reluctantly surrendered to the reality of having to be touched.

However, with an obstinacy that was typical of him and that sometimes resurfaced, he decided not to remove his clothing in front of strangers. It had been too long since someone had seen him shirtless and it’d been his sister that time, the only person he’d ever allowed to help, even if only partially.

Sasori stared at his face for a moment, then reiterated without altering his monotonous voice, “I can’t possibly believe in your excuse. If you’ve been hit on the face, you’ll definitely have contusions on the rest of your body as well, maybe even a few broken ribs.”

Surrounded in a corner with no escape, Gaara was on the verge of retorting when Hidan promptly intervened, annoyed, “That’s it, I’m fucking sick of this shit. Fix his face at least, and the rest is his own fucking business.”

With his impatience, Hidan hypothesized that Gaara had a valid reason for not wanting to strip his clothes despite he was looking like shit, and the reason wasn’t of a prudish or embarrassing nature. There was something else, but that wasn’t the appropriate time to discover what it was about. If an appropriate time existed, actually.

Both of the redheads were grateful for Hidan’s explicit remark for different reasons, so they silently proceeded with the rest of that spartan treatment, among stitches, disinfectants and a tacit promise that those bruised eyes and cheekbones the size of a melon would return normal sooner or later.

Sasori worked on it swiftly, with astonishing ability and almost gracefully as he held the surgery instruments in hand, like a violinist gripping their bow, or a ballerina elegantly dancing on pointe. The doctor observed and registered everything his seemingly absent eyes laid on as usual. Glimpses of pale skin exposed by Gaara’s loosened and mistreated shirt definitely didn’t slip away from his eyes. No expression altered his features, he remained unflappable and motionless like a beautiful marble statue, and he continued to work with the same loquacity of a sculpture.

Sasori only spoke to Hidan as he finished and removed his soiled gloves, “He’s lucky. His nose isn’t broken and his other injuries aren’t severe. Take him to Haku, he needs to eat and sleep… As for the rest, what do you intend to do with him? He’s only a high-schooler, Yahiko will go apeshit.”

That shirt and those pants had to belong to a school uniform, and Gaara’s face was terribly young underneath his bruises. It was known that teens only brought trouble in their reckless and agitated race to find their own place in the world.

Unconcerned, Hidan shrugged and reiterated, “Yahiko has little to lose his shit for, it’s not like I brought the new Juugo or something, we obviously won’t let him fight in important matches.” He then addressed Gaara who meanwhile stood up and listened with cautious attention, “Whenever you feel like brawling and venting, this is the right place. And you’ll even get paid because you’re not one who loses.”

Which was ironic, because Gaara had lost too many things in his life.

Sasori didn’t reply, nor was he interested in further making a case for it, so he merely stated, “Do what you want but you’ll have to explain it to the others. My job is done here.”

As if the other two magically disappeared, the doctor with dyed hair began to organize his belongings with meticulous care, in stark contrast with the austere place where they stayed.

Hidan muttered something else before opening the door and was about to leave when Gaara followed him to the doorstep and asked dryly, “Who are you all, exactly? And what are you expecting from me?”

His interlocutor gently pushed him outside.

“We? We’re just some fucking benefactors in this shitty city. As for you… I’m not expecting anything from you. I liked how you fought, you bet I fucking did, and I brought you here because I can’t fucking stand seeing a boy with his face reduced to shit. I don’t know who you are or who roughed you up like this, but I just know that I noticed you were alive when you started to kick that shithead’s ass on the streets.” He laid a finger on Gaara’s chest, a physical pause in that river of almost relentless words. “Now you’re free to do whatever the fuck you want. You can disappear, come back whenever you feel like it or even stay here. If you want to live _for real_ , then you can.”

Gaara was astonished by that answer. He didn’t even pay attention to that fingertip pressing on his thin flesh and the protruding bones of his chest. He didn’t know what to expect, but never in his life would he believe to receive words like these. Words that expressed interest and concern, albeit in a twisted way, and it was much more than Gaara expected from that night or from what he’s ever received until now. He couldn’t stop his face from relaxing somehow and his swollen eyes to widen, an emerald flash in that white and anonymous corridor.

“I’m… free…?” he murmured incredulously, more to himself than to his current savior in front of him.

And now there was a fundamental question: _what do people do when they’re free?_ Gaara had no idea and that threw him into confusion. His head whirled and ached for his thoughts and for being hit too many times, he couldn’t do anything but shut his eyes and stretch a trembling hand to grab the hem of Hidan’s hoodie, as if he was his anchor in that swirling world.

Hidan had expected many reactions: rage, fear, or even sharp refusal, but he’d never imagined he would hear a similar question. He didn’t know what to respond, because freedom, _the real one_ , couldn’t exist. And he felt sorry for that boy who was so thin and battered but still wore a shirt of refined cotton – albeit dirty – and with embroidered initials.

The world was a real shithole.

But he didn’t have time to think about anything else or linger over how desperately the boy was gripping his hoodie because he was suddenly and violently yanked from behind.

“You ugly bastard! When did you start doing it with Sasori? And in the middle of the corridor too… Nice one, kudos to you!” Deidara yelled furiously. He’d heard that Hidan returned so he’d gone to search for him, but he would’ve never thought to find him almost embracing that red-haired icicle that was their doctor.

Gaara, perplexed as if he heard someone speak in a foreign language, only saw Hidan rolling his eyes and abruptly turning his face, seemingly to the point of attacking someone. Then he heard Hidan inveigh against Deidara, “What the fuck is going on in your head?”

He slightly stepped aside, and Deidara – crazy, haughty and furious – had to realize he’d mistaken the two individuals. “As much as I like to fuck, I won’t go as far as to do it with a guy who always seems to have a stick up his ass!”

“How the fuck should I know?! I only saw a shorty with shitty hair, and I didn’t think another person who has such bad taste to dye it red would exist! And who the fuck is he anyway? Did you find him on the streets?” Deidara accused, pointing a finger at him as Gaara backed away a few steps, not understanding absolutely anything of what they were talking about.

Annoyed, Hidan smacked Deidara’s finger away with his hand and, still unsatisfied, pushed him against the wall, aware that Deidara had nonetheless let himself be willingly carried away. Despite his long, feminine hair and his hysterical attitude, Hidan had personally experienced how harmful that boy could be, not only physically. That was also why he liked Deidara, fucking hell.

Sliding a hand on Deidara’s neck, he warned, “Even if I did, it would be my own fucking business, we’re not bound by a contract. Though it’s nothing you’re imagining.” He cracked a morbidly evil smile. “Then, if you want, we can turn imagination into reality.”

That was their relationship: an incessant exchange of insults, innuendos, a constantly lunatic Deidara’s jealous scenes, and violent but passionate behaviors. They probably accepted each other’s quirks more easily because they both knew that only a few others could manage a partner like themselves.

“Get rid of the boy and I’ll consider it…” Deidara now smiled lustfully, as always completely forgetting his rage of a few instants prior. He leaned towards Hidan’s face as if wanting to kiss him, but actually biting his lip and licking it, everything before Gaara’s incredulous eyes, who couldn’t avert his gaze from them, confused and shocked by what he was witnessing.

Gaara had barely observed familial love in his life and had never experienced the warmth of an embrace. He was wary of physical contact, so how could he ever comprehend something like love, or even attraction, between two men? Embarrassed for his ignorance, Gaara gaped at them and was devoured by an obscure feeling that there was nothing wrong; in fact, he was the one to feel wrong, out of place and similar to an illiterate person who’d been given a wonderful book as a gift.

Despite the moment of distraction, Hidan squinted his eyes for an instant before opening them again and turning towards Gaara, feeling uncomfortable himself – something completely new in his life of indifference – for how that boy was staring at him with a seemingly empty but actually unsettling gaze despite his bruises and swelling.

“Let’s go find Haku,” he decided, willingly ignoring Deidara who naturally got pissed off. “You need a good night’s rest.”

“Go fuck yourself, asshole!” the perpetually blond lunatic yelled at Hidan before motionlessly shifting his gaze to Gaara. “And what the fuck are _you_ looking at?! Have you ever seen two men kissing each other, sucking dick, or maybe banging each other? You’re a homophobic boy with a small dick, huh?” Purely because it was reassuring to spit insults at a third party who wasn’t Hidan.

Due to his selfishness, Deidara couldn’t lucidly comprehend who he was dealing with and how much he would regret those words in the future, addressed to the most inappropriate person ever, and how that future was actually very near.

Gaara in fact gawked at him for an instant, still surprised by what he’d witnessed before being overwhelmed by the fury of a boy he’d just met and whose words were deeply unfair. How dared Deidara accuse him to judge someone when he knew the weight and affliction of other’s judgment well! Everyone was ready to point their finger at anyone or anything that was different and that didn’t abide by the standards of a society built on tears and misery due to the rejection of personality. In a flash, Gaara probably managed to realize why that weird doctor had dyed his hair a bold color, choosing to be distinguished regardless of the rest of the world.

Deidara’s words had hurt him for the umpteenth time that night, at a moment when Hidan’s somewhat considerate words had made him vulnerable instead. Gaara then reacted in the only way he knew, hunching his shoulders and pulling up his armor of spikes he knew every curve and concavity of and that he managed to wear with surgical precision.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Gaara exclaimed in reply, advancing towards Deidara with dangerous steadiness, his fists with aching knuckles tightening and a familiar rage growing in his chest. “You don’t know anything, nothing! And you chose the wrong person to fuck with!” He seemed to have unconsciously adopted his savior’s refined terminology.

Without thinking further, he bent his arm before unleashing a fierce and unrestrained punch towards Deidara. After all, he’d felt so good when he beat that stranger up that night, he’d felt free and able to release everything he’d poorly attempted to calmly keep inside him, so why not repeat that experience to someone who actually deserved it this time?

It was like a slow-motion, he felt everything gradually while his thoughts, anger and exhaustion flashed in his mind like a bolt of lightning. He arrived at a few centimeters to Deidara’s face when he widened his eyes, his mouth morphing into a furious grimace. But no decisive impact or explosion Gaara had expected ensued: his arm was in fact blocked by Hidan who grabbed him with equal rapidity, clawing his shirt with his sturdy fingers.

They stayed like that for a moment, all three of them motionless, until Hidan yanked Gaara’s closed fist with a light tug, the latter never stopping to glare at Deidara.

For a while, the blond remained with his widened eyes seemingly staring at the void, then slowly shifted his pupils to Gaara, glaring at him with dangerous intensity.

Hidan thought that the boy with neat, long hair would pounce on Gaara in the grip of a homicidal fury, but none of that happened. 

It was true, Deidara had considered the tempting hypothesis to hit that arrogant shorty on the head in that instant of immobility, but he changed his mind, conceding his boiling ego the luxury to reflect on what that squirt coming from god-knows-where had said.

And he felt stupid for having thrown accusations that only made him appear as what he despised: stupid, exactly. It was ironic how a high schooler gave him a life lesson. But because of this and his determined personality, Deidara understood Hidan’s reasons that had pushed him to bring that scrawny and fully bruised kid to them: because he knew how deep down they could all recognize themselves in Gaara’s every wound and agony.

“Out of my sight. And make sure you take a shower, _Casper_ , because you’re really gross,” Deidara only told Gaara, refusing to add anything else.

Maybe remotely, _very remotely_ , that was an unpleasant way for Deidara to show his acceptance for the occurrence and, if truth be told, it almost represented an accomplishment given the circumstances.

Gaara didn’t reply but constrained himself to glare at Deidara as the latter walked away in a golden sparkle and, only then, took a deep breath between his still gritted teeth. He filled his skinny chest once, twice, and only then managed to focus on reality once again, without the red curtain of rage clouding his sight. He also perceived an external warmth around his hand and he found it pleasant among the chilliness he felt. He slightly turned his head and found its cause: Hidan was still holding him and Gaara discovered that it disturbed him. The same hand that had touched and caressed Deidara a few minutes ago was now grabbing him instead… How could one nonchalantly touch other people? It was a banal but mysterious thing for him.

“You can let go now,” Gaara quietly said.

“Fuck,” Hidan swore, finally returning to breathe. “Holy shit, I would’ve had a lot of fun seeing you throwing hands at each other but… not tonight, fucking hell.”

He pushed his hair to the back of his head, as if to mechanically ensure that not a strand would be out of place and, without shame but with a veiled satisfaction, he decided to let go of Gaara to head towards the residential area of the bar destined for private use.

With a pragmatic hastiness that was typical of him, Hidan let Gaara visit the essential kitchen, with a fridge full of sad pre-made and frozen food, after telling him that there were various bedrooms upstairs for whoever needed to sleep there. They weren’t formally assigned to anyone, but from a couple of years now, each of them conventionally had a specific room for themselves.

“Actually,” Hidan commented ironically as he poured some vodka in two cups. “It bothers me to sleep where someone had just fucked.”

Noticing that Gaara wasn’t laughing and was staring at the alcoholic drink like some sort of dangerous potion, Hidan sighed and said, “Drink it all down, it’s the best painkiller in the world.” And he swigged the content of his own cup in a single gulp.

It was then that Haku entered, ever-present but silent like a ghost, who’d witnessed the interesting scene with Hidan – tall and fiercely splendid with his strange gray hair – alongside a perfect stranger with a swollen face and the air of someone who’d just blown their school up.

“Seriously? I’ve never drunk alcohol before,” Gaara mused and slightly flinched when he heard the newcomer’s unfamiliar voice.

“Seems about right to me, minors shouldn’t drink.” And he smiled sweetly before addressing Hidan, “Will he stay with us?”

“Just focus on putting him in shape, then we’ll see,” Hidan murmured, aware that Haku was a good guy but he shouldn’t trust him too much: he’d preferred it if he left that place and started a new life instead of paying his dues with the uncomfortable role of an all-rounder as well as Sasori’s personal slave. But Haku appeared to get on well there, with his own goal and certainties, and he seemed to have easily accepted to lend a hand in his own way.

“I think he should eat first and then take a shower,” Haku said, looking at the boy who wasn’t much younger than him. “I’m Haku. If you ever need anything, you can come to me.”

Gaara observed him perplexedly: the newcomer was endowed with an ethereal beauty, with long, dark hair collected in a bun, he was as tall as himself and seemed equally young. His face was clean and delicate, it jarred terribly with that place. Haku seemed a good person in general, but he must be hiding something to stay there: every person Gaara had met that night wasn’t exactly normal, just like himself after all. He didn’t feel like talking, his soreness and exhaustion started to get the better of him.

“Gaara,” he forced himself to utter, “And I’m not hungry.”

“That’s alright, we’ll go for the shower then,” Haku replied calmly as always. “Hidan, you can go. I imagine you have things to do,” he added, assuming that the man’s patience was drained.

“Wha…?” Gaara stuttered, surprised for the umpteenth time that strange and upsetting night, though he immediately bit his tongue to keep himself from continuing. Until now, Hidan had been by his side and Gaara took it for granted. He felt strangely calm with him, he forgot that Hidan couldn’t be his baby-sitter forever and that he would have to be on his own in that unknown place.

Called upon and pushed by his more mysterious subconscious, Hidan was tempted to stay, but his instinctive, grouchy energy got the best of him, suffocating that dangerous manifestation of good manners. 

Though not giving up his self-centered and equally provocative irony, he constrained himself to confirm Haku’s words, “I don’t need to take a shower, unless you want to see me naked, which is perfectly understandable if I were you.” Then, noticing that Gaara was staring at him in bewilderment, Hidan realized that he would hardly catch the irony. “Come on, don’t listen to me, fuck. Now focus on yourself and get the asshole who beat you up out of your head. Kids your age can be real pieces of shit sometimes.”

“My father,” Gaara whispered.

Haku motionlessly observed him.

Hidan halted, not leaving the room.

“What?” But he’d understood it perfectly, and he felt like an asshole for asking that question.

“It was my father,” Gaara repeated, looking at Hidan fearlessly and shamelessly in the eyes.

He actually felt better for saying that, because calling Rasa out, marking the culprit of those bruises and spitting out the demon that tormented him made him feel real and human. Because of that, there wasn’t a plea for compassion in his words, and he was grateful that Hidan wouldn’t have pitied him.

“Next time treat him like how you treated that loser on the street. You’ll be damned if you don’t.”

Hidan instinctively rested a hand on Gaara’s red hair, ruffling it just for a moment, like a brother, a friend or a lover, before pulling back as if he’d been struck by lightning. He hinted at a smile and left without waiting for other words that wouldn’t have arrived anyway.

Gaara in fact remained pensive and silent as he gazed at the door Hidan left, like if he could see the trails he left, a trail of Hidan that was invisible to everyone but Gaara. Had he ever felt such intense emotions for another human being before? Sure, he cared for his sister and was somehow starting to feel affection for that rickety chess club – especially Shikamaru and Naruto –, but he’d never felt so invested and captivated before. 

Actually, until now the only one able to influence him so heavily was Itachi Uchiha, a person he’d only met twice and for a few hours, who’d never brushed past him except with his gaze, but who’d still managed to bewitch and confuse him like this night.

Haku was the one to shake him out of his thoughts, gently and without redundant or unwanted words as always as he accompanied Gaara to the bathroom. He filled the bathtub and handed him clean clothes and towels before leaving him alone, something Gaara appreciated.

Slowly, he started to unbutton his shirt with aching hands and noticed his reddened knuckles soiled with someone else’s blood. He raised his head towards the small mirror of that spartan bathroom and noticed a stranger. He couldn’t recognize himself through that swollen face and bruised eyes that returned him a blank look. Only his hair was the same as always and, as he glimpsed his chest, he could easily discern his poor skin scarred by other people and himself, a sign that harm didn’t always come from outside, but also from oneself. He quickly averted his gaze. He wouldn’t be able to bear his dark abyss of memories that night.

He cleaned himself, grateful for that tub of water that also contained a warmth of gentleness of who prepared it for him and that Gaara accepted without asking too many questions. He was almost at his limit already, so much that he wasn’t even disturbed when saw the water turning red. He got out of the bathroom in a hurry with clean and new clothes, something he would have to get used to since everything would be new from then on. As he lay in an unfamiliar bed, he reflected on Hidan’s last remark and a small smile crept up his lips, drifting off to a pitiful and overly brief slumber as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheper’s notes (translated):  
> (12/04/2017)  
>  _Hi and welcome back to this heap of drama and suffering XD How much do we like making Gaara suffer? A bit too much indeed, poor sweetie, and things are only at the beginning for him, but we won’t spoil anything else XD  
>  But have you seen where he’s brought to? Sliding Doors, Akatsuki’s headquarters. And do you remember that there was a mysterious guy with gray hair called the Undertaker in the previous chapter? Are the pieces coming together? Go guys, pay attention to the details because we had fun spreading lots of hints throughout the story.  
> By the way, we love Hidan and his blunt and foulmouthed manners XD  
> Today’s song is “Terrible Tommy” by Ryan Horne who expresses the sense of confinement and loss of hope felt by Gaara well, the complete loss of his moral compass which is also his family’s fault. It’s a wonderful song that we discovered thanks to Sons of Anarchy, a TV series we love *.*  
> Enough chatter, we hope that you liked this chapter and we’d be happy to know what you thought of it, until next time and happy Easter!_
> 
> betta_100’s notes:  
> (13/02/2021)  
> Wow, this was a really lengthy chapter (~10k words, 20 pages), it took me so long to translate, revise and ensure that everything makes sense, lol. I’m pretty sure I overlooked some things (though I hope not haha), so if there are any mistakes please notify me. Otherwise I’ll keep re-reading it until I find them lmao  
> My heart broke at the Sand Siblings’ part and Rasa acted despicably. I’m just glad Gaara finally got to meet the Akatsuki and Hidan appeared to save his day.  
> It’s a bit early for Easter this time but have a nice day/night anyway! Thanks for reading :)


	7. I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself

_Planning everything for two  
And now that we’re through  
I just don't know what to do  
I just don't know what to do with myself  
(White Stripes)_

_Corner_ was a meeting place appreciated by every student of the neighborhood who, after finishing school and their duties with their after-school clubs, wanted to get a drink or sit and chat with their friends before returning home at night.

Oddly, even Sasuke was part of those students sitting at the tables that Friday night, not because he had a particular interest in sipping some juice or soft drink for teens, rather because, all things considered, he liked the habit he took with Naruto and his other friends to meet up together. And then he had important things to ask Naruto, he wanted to take advantage of it before the rest of the group joined them and made it impossible to have moments of privacy.

He didn’t talk right away.

Keeping his arms folded on his lap, legs crossed and a nervous gaze fixed on Naruto, he spent several seconds observing his friend as the blond, probably oblivious, was busy stirring his sugary and high-calorie beverage with his straw, where he asked to blend everything that was mixable. Sasuke couldn’t avoid an inkling of a smile, acknowledging how that blond boy with a contagious smile was able to put him in a good mood in his own way, an unparalleled talent due to the gloomy nature of the Uchiha’s second child.

“Is that red-haired guy in your new club?” he asked ambiguously at last before instinctively grabbing his iced tea as if it were the nirvana of street drinks.

For a few seconds, Naruto continued to stir his enormous smoothie with an abundant sprinkle of whipped cream on top, almost as if he didn’t completely understand the question. Then he raised his gaze, studying his friend who was sitting with absolute indifference.

Yes, Sasuke was the quintessence of indifference towards everything that didn’t interest him and that he deemed useless, so that question had definitely surprised Naruto who, with his usual optimistic tendency, assumed that maybe Gaara had appeared to be nice or interesting to him, but Sasuke would’ve never stooped to find some friends like every normal person. He was an Uchiha, dammit!

Smiling and happy for that prospect, Naruto enthusiastically replied, “Gaara? Why, of course. Hard not to notice him, isn’t it?” He chuckled, although the same could be applied to him too, blond as he was. “I can introduce you guys if you want. He’s nice but quite introverted. Maybe you’d get along, you’re similar in this sense,” he added, since getting the Uchiha to talk was also a big deal.

In front of that proposal, Sasuke’s tiring attempt at showing interest without ulterior motives got put on the back-burner, and he jolted as if he was stung before menacingly hissing, “Don’t get any strange ideas, idiot. It’s already weird that I’m hanging out with you, and I don’t want anything to do with him.”

He fell silent and pressed his lips, realizing that he’d reacted horribly even to his own standards. He returned to lean back on his chair while people came and went, enjoying the sunny day.

Everything seemed so exquisitely perfect, except for Sasuke. He felt a cursed storm of rage and frustration inside him that he couldn’t placate or understand.

Naruto slightly inspected his friend, surprisingly understanding and silent.

The Uchiha then continued, displaying an aloof confidence that he didn’t possess in that moment, “I heard Itachi tell our father that Gaara didn’t even show up yesterday.” A smile, one of those sharp ones. “Maybe he’s tired of school, your pathetic club, and even _you_.”

Why couldn’t Naruto stay with his leg in rehab and watch Sasuke play? It was asking too much, wasn’t it? He’d left, watching others move those stupid pawns rather than staying on the court and simply… being there.

 _Fuck you, Naruto_.

Naruto observed his friend. Despite the carefree demeanor he always displayed, he was much more mindful of detail than others gave him credit for, and he was also so goddamn empathetic. He imagined that an ancient sense of inferiority and inadequacy towards his family and Itachi was agitating in Sasuke’s soul, and it was literally eating him alive.

Sasuke didn’t have a great personality, nor was he easy to understand or deal with, but they were childhood friends and Naruto cared for him despite everything, even though sometimes Sasuke would explode and dump his anger on him like an infected wound full of pus. Naruto knew that his friend was at his limits in those rare cases, because Sasuke felt affection and attachment towards him; he’d demonstrated it many times with his actions, which mattered more than words.

For that reason, Naruto didn’t put much thought on those venomous sentences and didn’t respond harshly in turn, but replied in a strangely calm voice for his standards instead, “No, he didn’t get tired of it, at least I don’t think so… Although I obviously can’t say to know him well, not as well as _some_ people” – an implicit reference to who was sitting in front of him – “I think he just got in some trouble. I didn’t know he’d skipped Itachi’s lesson, but it doesn’t surprise me. It’s actually astonishing how he can walk around looking like that.” He sighed and grabbed his glass, drinking a few sips of his smoothie as his mind returned to the events of that morning.

* * *

It had been a few days since Gaara showed up at school; Naruto and Shikamaru were a bit worried. They didn’t have his phone number, nor did they know where he lived, so they didn’t have any way to contact him to know how he was doing. 

Thus, when Naruto started to hear rumors about a red-headed thug that came to school full of bruises that Friday morning, it didn’t take much for him to realize who they were talking about. He ran to Shikamaru’s classroom as soon as he could and found Gaara.

He was stiffly sitting in front of his desk, looking outside the window without caring about the chatters around him, as if he were shut inside a bubble where nobody else had permission to enter. He probably ignored the malicious rumors they were making up about him.

Naruto had heard lots of them, but the worst one was probably that he was a yakuza involved in shady trade. However, he knew it was impossible and Gaara was just introverted. As Naruto approached him, he inspected his greenish bruises, his still slightly swollen cheekbones and several stitches here and there. He felt a painful pang in his heart. What happened to him? Did he have to face everything on his own, or was someone by his side?

“Gaara,” Naruto called as he rested a hand on his shoulder, not caring about his bubble or his thorns. “How are you? What happened? I was worried to death!”

Gaara swiftly turned his head at that contact, widening his pale eyes in surprise. “Naruto… what are you doing here?” he asked, not answering his questions.

The boy shrugged. He could’ve given him a predictable reply, like “ _You know, I also go to school,_ ” but he instinctively beamed instead, a warm and sincere smile that cracked the safety armor Gaara was hiding behind, and answered shrugging, almost as if he was stating something obvious, “Well, I’m your friend.”

And it was then that Gaara gaped at him, astonished, confused, finally landing after days of unstopping circling while the famous armor broke to pieces. For a moment, he felt naked in front of his friend, his soul exposed and his heart visible, but no matter how alienating it seemed, it wasn’t painful like he expected.

“I’m… I’m fine… even if it doesn’t seem like it,” he managed to reply somehow, feeling out of breath as if he ran a marathon, while Shikamaru smiled beside them. The latter had tried talking to Gaara but only received scarce and brief replies from him. 

Apparently, Naruto’s energy and warmth – able to melt anyone’s heart – was just what Gaara needed.

Perplexed but not showing it, Naruto eyed his friend’s bruises, stitches, and his still swollen face that was slowly healing, wondering who had reduced him to that. He didn’t miss his hands with reddened knuckles, a sign that Gaara had probably also fought back. However, he instinctively doubted that he’d lashed out at the same person who’d beaten him up.

Many knew, or better, _felt_ Naruto’s cheerfulness and considered him a jokester, a distracted boy able to play around and have fun. However, what the others overlooked was his innate ability to observe, more than listen or be listened, reason why he got along so well with Shikamaru those months, both of them sharing a unique form of empathy that manifested in extremely different ways.

At that moment, the Uzumaki discerned a group of people in a corner of the classroom chatting amongst themselves and eyeing them. They definitely knew who he was, who he was friends with and what connections he had. They also definitely believed that Gaara was a freak and seeing them together generated another wave of malicious gossip.

Smiling, triumphant and with confident strides, Naruto marched towards the small group that gradually stopped talking to stare at him bemusedly, not really knowing what to expect.

Arriving in front of them, the boy snatched a notebook without beating around the bush, ripping up a page and stating, “It’s not like you need to write when you know how to talk so well, right?”

Nobody dared to stand up, complain about the loss of a sheet of paper or comment on that ironic statement. Everyone, with their mouth shut and motionless eyes, observed Naruto return to Gaara – who had witnessed that scene equally motionlessly – and scribble on that piece of paper.

“This is my number. I don’t have my phone with me right now, I left it in class.” He chuckled. “You can call me next time. For anything really, like hanging out or something. It would be fun.”

Shikamaru had kept his arms crossed, surprisingly amused, before plucking the piece of paper and reprimanding, “You and your attention-seeking behavior.” Taking his pen as well, he wrote in a pointy calligraphy. “Here, my number is on it too, though I know you’ll call me exactly as many times as I will call you: never. But… I’m here. _We’re_ here, actually.”

Gaara gawked at that paper that was handed to him and those two boys as if they were aliens. Friends? People one could count on? He’d barely started to build something with his siblings, and suddenly, he found himself with two other human beings who wanted to be a part of his life. And no, they weren’t saying it just for the sake of it. Naruto’s gaze was so straightforward and sincere that even _he_ could understand it.

Gaara was flabbergasted. He hadn’t behaved differently than usual, yet apparently someone had been able to accept him. If he weren’t so shocked by that week’s continuous chain of events, he’d probably start shedding tears of joy: it was what he’d yearned for his entire life.

With a trembling hand and despite his fear of new things, he accepted the paper along with everything that it entailed, with a desire to face the vitality that had bloomed in him. He stared at the numbers for a few seconds, as if he wanted to decipher them to comprehend their secrets, before slowly looking at them one at a time.

“I don’t know what to say… Thank you…” he hesitantly murmured, unsure about how other people would behave in similar situations, in front of such a spontaneous and unselfish display of friendship. “Anyway, nothing serious happened to me, they’ve only attempted to rob me. I fought back and this is the result. I’m not a yakuza’s son and I’m not doing anything shady, though everyone seems to believe it, apparently,” he explained, blurting out the lie that Hidan had suggested to him. He felt a bit petty for lying to them after that demonstration of friendship, but there was no way he could dump the pile of fumy shit that was reality on them. Besides, that fighting business didn’t concern _him_ but the other Gaara, his dark side that was quenched and relaxing in that moment.

Shikamaru observed Gaara as he talked, fully convinced that the boy with showy hair wasn’t involved with the Yakuza – at least not with the Yakuza the world knew –, but less sure about the mugging. Gaara looked more like he’d fought someone, thrashing so much that he hurt himself, and had been beaten up by someone who wanted him dead or at least with altered features.

But he didn’t express his doubts: the last thing Gaara needed, especially after opening up that way, was someone who questioned his statements in that moment. Perhaps one day Gaara would share those concealed secrets to them as well, but until then he would have friends who were able to mind their own business, not for indifference but for respect.

The bell rang, announcing the start of the lessons.

The teacher was about to enter the classroom, so before bidding Naruto goodbye and accommodating on his own seat, Shikamaru only said, “Don’t thank us, we know you’re not a yakuza. We don’t mind what you are, honestly. Judging others is a waste of time. You are who you are, period.”

Naruto chuckled affably. “Shikamaru’s actually a poet beneath that blasé exterior.”

Embarrassed, the poet in question pushed his friend and reproached, “Shouldn’t you leave already? You’d better go unless you’re desperately attracted to Math.”

In front of that threat, the bothersome blond said his goodbyes hurriedly and rushed out of the classroom before he could be miserably kicked out by the teacher and actually risk being imprisoned in the deathly trap of functions.

Gaara felt free for the first time instead. What a wonderful feeling.

* * *

Naruto returned to the present after a brief flashback of that morning. He leisurely placed his glass on the table and contemplated his friend who exhibited a placid demeanor, foreign to him, who usually dived headfirst into everything recklessly and only guided by instinct.

Sasuke was eyeing him suspiciously, with a horrible feeling that irritatingly twisted his stomach that became painful in hearing the other’s answer.

“Gaara is a good guy, he’s nice. He just had a small mishap and probably skipped Itachi’s lesson for that. He probably forgot to notify him,” Naruto mused, shrugging. “I gave him my number, I hope he calls me,” he added, feeling a bit sorry for saying these things to Sasuke, but he didn’t want to miss out on new friendships, and broadening his circle of connections would eventually be beneficial to Sasuke too.

Naturally Sasuke didn’t take it well. Not because he was bothered by Naruto’s attitude, who has always been exuberant with everyone, but because he somehow felt cut off from that part of the world, paradoxically aware that he didn’t even want to enter in the first place. It was as if Gaara was distancing him from his certainties without even knowing him, and it was starting to take its toll.

Maybe he was exaggerating, or maybe his intuition was the result of a paranoia governed by plain dissatisfaction, but he couldn’t help but rudely reply to his friend, “Your brain is obviously fried since you started hanging out with that club of losers. _I hope he calls me?_ How old are you, Naruto? Where will you take your new friend, to the playground?”

 _Nasty_. Yes, he felt disgustingly nasty. A wounded animal that decided to attack instead of hiding in its den, away from everything that threatened it.

“Why not? You’ve never wanted to go there,” Naruto replied, ignoring Sasuke’s intent to hurt him. He was angry but he couldn’t exactly understand why, it definitely wasn’t the first time he was making friends. “And the only thing that’s fried is my fucking ankle, you know that,” he added, balling his fists and hardening his gaze.

It had been difficult to accept that injury, distance himself from the sport he loved so much and find something else that would interest him. Watching others play, jump and soar above the ground for those few, necessary moments to score was something that made him miserable, because he missed it so much he felt crippled and it was something that he couldn’t accept.

 _You hit the bull’s eye, idiot_ , Sasuke mentally repeated to himself, _idiot, idiot, idiot_.

He stared at his empty glass for a moment, water droplets sliding down the transparent surface, and raised his eyes, struck by Naruto’s gaze. 

At that point he managed to say, pretending to be earnestly indifferent, “Sorry, I went overboard. I miss you on our team.”

It was so difficult to talk. Why did his mouth feel blocked and sealed by a superior force in uttering those words? Yet he felt better after pronouncing them. Empty, exactly like his glass.

Naruto wished to be able to record that sentence. With a few words, Sasuke had said things he’d never pronounced in those years of honorable friendship: Sasuke _missed_ him, which was something like science-fiction, and especially his apology that was a slap on his pride.

If they were both in a different mood, Naruto would’ve probably tirelessly made fun of Sasuke for giving in, but it wasn’t the case that day. So, the young Uzumaki immensely appreciated what had been expressed and constrained himself to shrug with a smile, in a way that his friend wouldn’t regret that change of events.

They fell silent after that rare accomplishment, floating on a sea of untold words that they would have to verbalize sooner or later, but not that afternoon and not with friends that would soon catch up to them, confirming the end of that special moment.

***

At a first glance, it seemed a night like every other at Sliding Doors. People playing pool, drinking alone, trying to flirt with some girl before sleeping with her, hidden from who waited for them at home, and the bartender who listened to all the poor lost souls searching for a generous ear to unload the weight of their daily adversities.

In a corner of the bar, as if enveloped in a bubble, two young men were chatting relaxedly with a pint of beer and a glass of whiskey on the usual consumed but comfortable leathered armchair, an already half full ashtray and a pair of jeans to replace their stuffy suits of high fashion.

Even as they talked, Shisui could effortlessly notice that something worried his cousin. He could distinguish Itachi’s mood in the nervous twitches of his long and skinny fingers, his pressed lips and his stiff back, signs concealed under the world’s eyes.

Shisui was concerned: Itachi was usually very controlled and would only let himself go with _him_ – and that wasn’t even always –. He’d rarely seen Itachi like this and only when something happened to Sasuke, mostly. But he knew that his younger cousin was doing well, so the problem should be something else. However, Itachi still hasn’t decided to tell him about it, so it was Shisui’s responsibility to gently extract the words out of him.

“You know, I talked to Yahiko before I arrived, apparently there’s a new guy that seems rather tough,” he began saying, breaking the ice.

Itachi listened half-heartedly. He just nodded before shifting his gaze towards an indefinite corner of the bar, absorbed in that invisible space as people entered, left, searched for a drink, a dialogue, an easy fuck. Everything kept flowing in the end, and Itachi remained motionless with his thoughts that scared him at times.

Maybe because he wasn’t used to direct his thoughts to someone other than Shisui, Sasuke, or the Akatsuki and its goals. And the last two were generally what absorbed him, sadly leaving too little time to who loved him deep down.

For a few days already, he irrationally dedicated fragments of his thoughts – so nothing important – to Gaara instead. Mere instants, but instants that returned dangerously. Itachi, always so rational and calculating, could absolutely not understand the equation that tied him to Gaara that time. He’d impressed him, yes, and Itachi sensed that no matter how problematic his student was, he had a brilliant mind and would go a long way, but he’d never felt upset when some of his students skipped his lesson. He’d actually feel liberated, but this did not happen that Thursday, when he’d gone to the same café of the previous weeks to meet Gaara.

He’d sat at the exact same table, arriving early as always, and waited. Only a few minutes actually, but they were enough for him to understand that Gaara wouldn’t have arrived that time. It had been an intuition of an incomprehensible nature to give him that certainty.

He’d waited another five minutes sharp, in a deluded anticipation that sooner or later his student with flashy red hair would cross the threshold into the café, searching for him with his gaze like the first time. But there hadn’t been anybody. So, silent and intimately irritated for that absence, Itachi had put away his laptop and left after paying for his coffee.

He hadn’t called Gaara, he’d absolutely not stoop _that_ low, but from then on his mind has decided to dedicate sporadic and rapid thoughts on why his student hadn’t showed up and if there was something more important than his lessons that held him back. Maybe he was giving himself too much credit, but that was how it should be: Itachi demanded precision, respect and punctuality from everyone.

He still hasn’t decided to phone Gaara’s father that Saturday night either and order him to educate his son, adding that Gaara could even stop showing up at his lessons again: more deserving people would even sell their souls to be at Gaara’s place.

But he didn’t do it. It was ironic that he didn’t even know why.

With those thoughts in mind, an extinguished cigarette and a gaze now returned to fix on Shisui, Itachi commented regarding the news his cousin told him, “Is that so? He’ll make some money here before leaving like everyone else. Only a few people stay.”

A shrug, and the topic was dismissed. Itachi definitely didn’t have time to waste with newcomers, at least not before they made big money. Until then it was Yahiko’s problem.

“Probably, but it seems that Hidan was impressed and took him in personally. Maybe he’ll become a star like Juugo,” Shisui remarked with a sharp grin. “Anyway, it’s the others’ problem now,” he concluded, staring at Itachi intensely and wondering how he should continue before Itachi would shut himself in his shell again.

He lifted his arm in a barely hinted movement, just enough to brush Itachi’s ponytail that was resting on his shoulder and spread out on his chest like an ink stain contrasting with his light shirt.

Nobody would’ve noticed that gesture, as delicate as it had been, but for the two it was something important seeing how rarely they touched in public.

“Itachi, is there something wrong?” Shisui proceeded, staring at him in the eyes with a tenderness that he’d shown him only a few times and that was distant from their intrinsic nature.

Itachi unexplainably smiled, almost ironically. Then he commented out of the blue, as if pushed by that contact that made him feel selfish, “Did you know that my student didn’t show up at lesson?”

As if to say: _it’s absurd that someone had deliberately chosen not to be with me_.

And that was the very first time he talked to Shisui about his students. Not in generic terms, like ridiculing the ignorance of some or showing surprise for others’ effort. He’d been riskily straightforward and precise, like a sniper who’d wanted to shoot his target on the head for a long time.

He took his shot by talking explicitly about Gaara and his absence, revealing his own position, inevitably exposing himself to Shisui who’d sensed something different in the complicated scheme that was Itachi right from the beginning.

And Shisui, expert soldier in the war fought alongside his cousin, knew that Itachi was behaving in such a way this night because of Gaara, an ordinary creature, light years distant from the world they’d shaped together for years. He surreptitiously smiled to himself, not making anything show through the surface. He was a lawyer and even a freakishly good one after all! He knew how to control his emotions and expressions, but very rarely he’d have to do it with Itachi. He continued to delicately caress his dark hair, wondering how much that stranger had impressed his cousin; definitely a lot, but for now it didn’t alarm him.

“So, you won’t see him again?” Shisui prompted, sure that Itachi would never stoop low enough to call Gaara no matter how interested he was.

It was surreal to Itachi feeling his hair being caressed. A discreet but present touch that reminded him that Shisui was there with his dark eyes, wavy locks and lips he’d bitten during their nights together.

“I don’t care.” Why was he lying to him? What was the need for it? “I obviously won’t be the one to search for him.”

How splendidly predictable pride was.

“I don’t doubt it,” Shisui stated, letting a small smile bloom on his face. It was amazing to know a person so deeply that one could predict their moves, reason why Gaara or anyone else didn’t worry him. He was sure that nobody would ever manage to have a relationship as deep as theirs. “But it bothered you, otherwise you wouldn’t stay here brooding over it,” he proceeded, caressing Itachi with his light and hypnotic strokes. “His father has admittedly been rather strange these days. He’s working a lot more and even asked to be sent on a business trip… But maybe the two things aren’t correlated.”

Yes, it had undeniably bothered Itachi, but what was even more alienating was the fact that he kept dwelling on it. Then he reflected on the information Shisui had given him, but no matter how much he tried to find a clue, he couldn’t understand the correlation between Gaara’s absence and his father’s business trip. Generally, boys like Gaara, similar to those he taught in the previous years, didn’t have an affectionate relationship with their father, at least not to the point of skipping lessons to spend more time with them before they left.

He remained silent, enveloped in a cocoon of Shisui’s delicate care, comforted by the shadows of his bar with the desire to think about that night’s underground fights, the agreements reached with the bordering city’s traffickers and the Uchiha firms’ market stocks.

All the shit of this world.

Then his phone vibrated with a simple and almost mute quiver. Itachi, who would’ve gladly avoided using his phone that night, rapidly grabbed it and discerned a notification displayed on the screen.

A message from Gaara.

He could’ve not opened it, put everything back in its place and ignored something normally so futile right when Shisui was by his side, but he contradicted himself instead. He read the message, scanning a few meagre lines of apology from someone who wasn’t used to apologize like himself, as well as the simple and deliciously guilty request to resume their lessons.

To see each other.

In another circumstance, Itachi wouldn’t even reply; in others, he’d probably ask them to justify their absence, but not that night and not with Gaara.

Equally cold and unable to communicate, Itachi only responded with an “Ok”.

Ok, life goes on. Ok, _we’ll meet again_.

Two heavy but comforting letters for both the sender and the recipient.

Shisui had observed that string of actions in a surge of contrasting feelings. At first it was a light annoyance for that interruption, in a moment when there should only be space for themselves. He’d then noticed Itachi’s expression become initially irritated before morphing radically. Itachi had read the notification and simultaneously distanced himself a little, that little he needed to pull away from Shisui’s hand and caresses, a seemingly insignificant gesture that caught Shisui off-guard. Then, he observed Itachi reading inquisitively and felt their distance even more starkly, as if Itachi had been thrown into another dimension, willingly leaving Shisui behind and it hurt him.

He felt lost. Glimpses of life without Itachi or, even worse, a life with him by his side but not in the way Shisui was used to flashed in his mind for an instant, and he believed that a similar prospect would be unbearable. For the first time in his life, he felt unexpectedly jealous. Jealous of someone who had managed to snatch his cousin’s attention away, able to erase that wrinkle of worry on Itachi’s forehead, something Shisui hadn’t been able to accomplish instead.

“I imagine it’s not Ino,” Shisui only commented, carefully controlling his tone so that it wouldn’t expose his turmoil. He couldn’t let Itachi know, he also had a certain dose of pride to maintain. Yet Itachi’s now relaxed expression was almost unpleasant to him, and he wanted to kiss Itachi until it hurt him before brutally possessing him to remind him that they belonged to each other.

“No, it’s not Ino,” Itachi confirmed, mustering that only seemingly indifferent expression he used to shield himself with and that worked so well with everyone except Shisui, who didn’t ask anymore questions, aware that his cousin wouldn’t provide him with answers anyway.

Shisui sprang up abruptly, not caring about alcohol, cigarettes or those scumbags who frequented that place. Aware that his cousin was studying him, he placed himself behind Itachi’s armchair and bent his back, curving on top of the other Uchiha like a hawk extending its wings to protect its nest. He leaned his mouth towards Itachi’s right ear, stretching his arms on the backrest without touching his cousin’s shoulders.

“Shall we go to my place?”

_Because you make me crave for it. Your every fucking gesture makes me long for you, your presence, your cursed hair, your superior gaze that I recognize in its shades of melancholy. It’s you and me, Itachi, remember? Just you and me against the world._

_And if fucking you and being fucked by you is the way to remind you of it, then yes, let’s make this night a memorable one. That student of yours needs to become a shadow that vanishes, crushed under our light._

Yes, that night had been so. Both had enjoyed the other, clinging to each other’s legs, arms, hands, their entire body.

Shisui had been more aggressive than usual, but Itachi had revealed to be dominant on all fronts. He’d taken Shisui from his rear, almost clawing his waist, tugging at his hair and scratching his back as he fucked him while Shisui moaned hoarsely, feeling like a slut that night because he wanted more; because even if he’d had his ass broken he still felt unexplainably empty, even when he was enveloped by Itachi’s loving passion who somehow tried to make amends.

Now that everything was fine and they were together, feeling his partner surrendering to orgasm, Itachi felt stupid for all the thoughts he had in those days, for having neglected Shisui, even if only for a while. Because they’d made a promise and that was the man he’d shared his life with in a way, and he promised himself once more to never disregard Shisui again.

 _Ever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheper’s notes (translated):  
> (28/04/2017)  
>  _Welcome back ashore! With this chapter, we’ve started to see how Gaara’s events have influenced other people’s lives as well, people who started to take part in his world. Sasuke and Naruto… let’s spend a few words on them. We know, we know, we can see you waving banners and pompoms to root for SasuNaru, but for now their relationship will proceed slowly in our story and in any case they will not be the focus of the upcoming chapters. The two are friends, classmates and basketball teammates, although at the moment Naruto is transferring to the chess club because of his injury. They share a deep bond and Sasuke is protective of it even though he can’t fully realize it, too caught in other problems, starting with his constant sense of inferiority and inadequacy towards his family and the entire world. We could also say that he’s too caught in himself to open up and weave any kind of romantic relationship.  
>  Itachi… Itachi is somehow struck by Gaara, but he doesn’t even understand why, he only knows that something in his orderly life has changed. Shisui also notices it, but for now he doesn’t worry about it, confident in the solidity of their relationship. In short there are quite a few irons in the fire, we’ll see how all these storylines evolve XD  
> Today’s song is sung by White Stripes. We love this band and Jack White in his soloist career later as well. This song is definitely sweet but scathing and suits this chapter’s protagonists’ contrasting feelings to a T.  
> Thanks to those who continue to follow us and leave comments. We really like exchanging ideas with you, it helps us improve more and more. Until next time!_
> 
> betta_100’s notes:  
> (20/02/2021)  
> I adore Naruto so much here. He’s so tolerant, forgiving and open to everyone, particularly Sasuke and Gaara who are both troubled in their own ways. Uzumaki Naruto is a Good Friend™ indeed


	8. 21 Guns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betta_100’s notes:  
> (28/02/2021)  
> I’m experimenting with the text format a bit so I removed additional spacing as I felt like it can be a bit unnecessary. I hope it doesn’t look too crammed but I think it looks better than before. Let me know if it disrupts your reading experience. If it doesn’t, I’ll edit all the previous chapters too.  
> Thank you and hope you enjoy!

_When you're at the end of the road  
And you lost all sense of control  
Your faith walks on broken glass  
And the hangover doesn't pass  
One, 21 Guns  
Throw up your arms into the sky  
You and I...  
(Green Day)_

The real strength of a group lies in its ability to unite, understand respective points of view and elaborate a strategy that can satisfy everyone’s needs. In fact, the members of the Akatsuki – criminal organization hidden behind Sliding Doors’ façade – undertook exactly those actions that morning after Sasori notified Yahiko of the presence of an underage stranger from god-knows-where between their walls, which represented an annoying problem along with all its additional implications, especially because the boy had been strangely brought in by Hidan, who suddenly became a sort of twisted benefactor.

And Yahiko, feigned leader but CEO on behalf of Shisui and Itachi, inevitably had to deal with that ugly course deviation, reason why he’d announced an emergency meeting with the other members, avoiding involving the Uchiha in it. But knowing them, they would’ve hardly found a scrap of time due to their boring jobs and would leave the matter to Yahiko with an upsetting and equally annoying trust, confiding in his decisional abilities.

The remaining members of the Akatsuki then found themselves around a table, with liters of watery coffee in hand and painkillers for headaches for those who’d passed an extreme night.

Yahiko, at the head of the table, glanced at the other eight members who accommodated themselves at both sides of the furniture: many different people as proved by their face, by someone’s eccentric hair color or by their more or less composed way of sitting, especially by their different personalities and attitudes, and Yahiko had to be able to understand them and prevent potential rash decisions. Too bad he absolutely couldn’t have predicted Hidan’s; it would be impossible after all, Yahiko was only a human being and not a fortune-teller.

For a while, he raised his gaze towards the ceiling of that windowless and bare room where they gathered, their private hall, Akatsuki’s holy of holies, and after shooting daggers at a very annoyed Hidan, he announced, “I’ve called you here because right now we have an underage guest taken in by Hidan, who apparently deemed necessary to not only let him visit our base but also invite him to stay with us. Naturally, everything without asking other people’s fucking opinion first.”

Hidan brought his hands behind his head, irritated.

“Yahiko, you’re a pain in the ass. You must’ve sucked the Uchiha hard if they still haven’t kicked your ass out yet.”

Hidan obviously knew that Yahiko’s position had little to do with his potential oral abilities, but he liked provoking him with his usual spite, just to remind him that they were colleagues and not subordinates, despite the chairman had every sacrosanct right to be pissed off.

“Or maybe _you_ are the one particularly skilled in it since they still haven’t kicked you out despite all the troubles you make,” Yahiko calmly replied, fiddling with one of his facial piercings. “Weren’t _you_ perhaps the one to lose that batch of heroin last month? Do I need to let Kakuzu remind you how much money you made us lose?” he alluded, eyeing the accountant who was already placing a hand on his notebook.

Offended, the accused rolled his eyes.

“Fuck you, I abundantly repaid my loss with the dealing of that batch of AK rifles to the big shots of Ame, and the Americans can go screw themselves for trying to steal our sales.” Hidan slammed his hands on the table before proceeding, “I don’t have time to waste and I don’t give a fuck about convincing you of something. Look at that kid with your own eyes first.”

“He isn’t completely wrong…” Kakuzu interjected, peering at the columns of numbers neatly written on his notebook with an interest and passion that a lover could show to their partner.

“A scarecrow beaten to a pulp? Oh yeah, remarkable acquisition,” Sasori mocked with his usual vein of cold irony that characterized him.

“You clearly haven’t seen him well then,” Deidara reluctantly argued.

It bothered the blond admitting that the boy had somehow impressed him, but he couldn’t waste an opportunity to contradict Sasori: usually Deidara minded his own business, but otherwise he was a volcano of emotions, exploding and expressing everything that passed through his mind without the desire to establish bonds or please his interlocutors. The doctor was also constantly isolated or with Haku at most to work on his own tasks but, contrary to Deidara, he was cloaked in an aura of superiority, judging them as if they were an inferior species and this bothered Deidara terribly; he wanted to gouge blood out of the mask of wax Sasori had instead of his face and to see an emotion from him at least once.

“What if we send someone to call him?” Konan suggested, the only woman of the group who’d been silent but who, along with her other quiet colleague Nagato, wanted to avoid a quarrel among her co-workers. It didn’t take much to make a simple discussion degenerate.

Grateful for Konan’s rational presence, Yahiko nodded and, right when he was already sure that they managed to avoid a storm, he was readily proved wrong by that unexpected cloud full of lightning and rain called Suigetsu.

“Are you serious? Who fucking cares about some motherfucking kid?! Do we really need to waste time to argue about him? Just kick his ass out or something, it’s not like we’re an orphanage or a soup kitchen, we have other shit to think about.”

“ _I’ll_ be the one to kick your ass if you don’t shut up with your bullshit, except I’ll kick it so hard it’ll break the shitty teeth you’re stuck with. How about that?” Hidan retorted, unable to accept the fact that Suigetsu had something to say about his life. He deemed him useless and harmful for the ecosystem, especially if he had to live with Suigetsu in the same environment.

The boy snickered before raising his hands and making a scared face. “Damn, I’m shitting myself. Please don’t give me a booboo, Hidan,” he whined in a childish voice, knowing that it would anger the grey-haired man even more. “What? Does it annoy you that nobody gives a fuck about your new little toy?”

As expected, Hidan flew into rage and was already rising to his feet with the intention to leap over the table and smash that shitty face, ignoring Deidara’s excited gaze that was checking him out or Juugo’s hand that tried to hold him back by his shirt. He just wanted to feel his fist collide with those pointy teeth that only an idiot like Suigetsu could get himself, but he froze when he heard Yahiko yelling.

“That’s it, you all broke my balls!” He pointed a finger at Hidan. “Sit back down and don’t you dare start a fight or so help me! Go down to the arena tonight if you’re keen on it, at least you’d be of some use then. Suigetsu isn’t entirely wrong, I’d really like to know what the fuck was going on in your brain to bring that boy here. And you Suigetsu, stop laughing and shut your trap, the boy is a problem and we obviously can’t just kick him out after he discovered our hideout, and I definitely don’t intend to kill a poor innocent guy that just found himself in the wrong place. Even if we’re criminals, nobody here is so lowly to do it.”

A heavy silence fell in the hall when Yahiko finished talking, and he scrutinized all the members that didn’t dare answer him. Shisui and Itachi would definitely be proud of him: as long as he made everything go smoothly and didn’t consult them for important matters, they wouldn’t care about what happened or the methods Yahiko was forced to use.

As Hidan returned to his seat, with balled fists and rage in his guts, Nagato was oddly the one to speak again, in his calm voice that seemed to clash with the violent tones used until then, reproposing Konan’s previous suggestion, “How about if we call him here and get to know him?”

Yahiko took a deep breath to calm down, glad that Nagato and Konan were always by his side; his friends since forever, his roots that he would never allow to be eradicated.

“Yes, good idea. At least we’ll get a clue about who he is and determine if he’ll bring potential complications.” He stood up without waiting further before opening the door and calling Haku, “Bring him in.”

Haku nodded briskly, immediately understanding who his Boss was referring to. He returned after a few minutes, bringing Gaara with him after managing to convince him amiably, skillfully glossing over the fact that there would be an entire group of strangers – or almost strangers – behind the door. Just mentioning the fact that Sliding Doors’ manager wanted to know the redhead caused Haku to receive a glare of irritation mixed with a remote feeling of discomfort.

In fact, as soon as Gaara detected that an indefinite hoard of people was waiting for him – damn it, it seemed thousands of people and gazes to him – he first gave Haku a death stare, then retraced his steps with the intention to walk away from there, but Hidan stood up and stopped him.

“Gaara, wait.”

And the boy halted, examining him despite Hidan didn’t know what else to say.

Fortunately, Yahiko intervened with diplomatic ability, explaining in an almost accommodating manner, “Hidan has told us about you.” – A white lie – “This is our home, we wanted to know who you are.”

Gaara balled his fists. He took some time before responding, rationalizing the situation and trying to scrutinize the onlookers. He shifted his gaze on a considerable variety of humans, discerning a stunning woman with dark hair beside a man with equally somber hair, hypnotic eyes and moody features, clashing with a burly bodied behemoth beside him. He then recognized the already known Deidara with an undecipherable smirk, unlike Sasori who seemed light years distant from that place instead, and Suigetsu who glared at him as if he wanted to set him on fire. He narrowly tilted his head, initially shifting his eyes on a hunched man with thin, long hair and scars at the corners of his mouth, then on Hidan, who was still proudly standing near the chairman who had just spoken. The latter’s face was covered in piercings and had orange hair, his serious gaze boring into Gaara in an absurd mixture of transgression of social norms and surprising discipline.

 _Just who are these people?_ Gaara wondered with a certain discomfort. He forced himself to stay alert, focusing his attention on what had been said, and found himself having to admit that the chairman was right. No matter how questionable and dim that place was, it was their home and he had invaded their space.

“Thank you for letting me stay here last night,” Gaara replied, a bit uncertain about what to do, and thought about Hidan’s words last night. He was free now, but what did he actually want to do? And what should he say in front of those piercing, hazel eyes that tried to dig his soul?

“At least he’s polite,” Nagato commented without letting those words alter his facial features.

“Oh well, a truly remarkable quality indeed,” Sasori replied wryly.

Hidan exasperatedly interjected, “Who the fuck are you guys? Ladies that gathered together to drink tea and talk shit about the bitch ass neighbor who still isn’t separating her waste?” Deidara snickered despite himself. “The fact is that Gaara kicks ass with a strength and rage that I’ve seen in each of you. Fuck preconceptions, weren’t we the ones that are going to wreck this shitty city? And we’re wasting time to judge a kid? Fucking hypocrites.”

He plopped back down almost with a thud, propping his feet on the table with his usual couldn’t-care-less attitude and with Deidara’s consequent disgusted grimace.

Gaara gaped at that man in amazement who had took his side so easily, without knowing him and judging him: he felt a pang in his chest, a different pain from those felt before that he couldn’t recognize. He only knew that he should thank him. Sure, Hidan had practically confirmed that he was an exceptional thug, but in those times, one couldn’t really be picky with compliments. Besides, he was starting to appreciate novelties and first times of any kind.

Yahiko turned to face Hidan who seemed perfectly at ease and relaxed, as if tension didn’t exist in that room.

“What you said is true, but it’s also true that we don’t just let anyone come to our home, this place is too valuable,” the Leader stated enigmatically. “In any case, it seems to me that you’re looking after him. It’ll be _your_ problem if he makes a mess… And his own, obviously.” And he pierced his serious gaze into Gaara who managed to bear it despite a twinge of apprehension for those words.

He reflected considerably last night since he slept a little more than three hours as always thanks to his insomnia. He thought about how good and complete he felt at last when he beat that stranger on the streets, when he let that other part of himself that he’d always repressed freely take over: _his monster_. Maybe Hidan was right: that was the only moment when he was truly alive. So why not completely reveal it, why hold back? Gaara had nothing more to lose. If he was truly free, he could fight as much as he wanted, even if his hands would be reduced to a pulp. He was responsible for himself and wasn’t a slave of his cruel father he’d always tried to please anymore.

So, when Yahiko asked him if he was willing to fight that night, he nodded: the first step towards an unknown and tempting future.

***

Temari had always considered herself a pragmatic, determined and even an overly proud woman, unable to give in and bend under her father’s orders like a reed. But that fateful spring night, when she witnessed Gaara almost dying under their father’s punches packed with blind rage, she had to reconsider every single good opinion she had of herself and her legendarily tenacious personality.

Because she hadn't known any better than yelling at his brother, begging their father to stop, restraining herself to be an unanimated spectator of that cruel show that was offered to her despite herself. She couldn’t have done anything else. She’d only moved at the last moment, perhaps for cowardly fear that she would otherwise have to bury a corpse, or maybe for the awareness that nobody else could’ve prevented the worst.

When Gaara had left in the end, emptied, bruised, covered in blood and lumps, she hadn’t been able to follow him: doing it would mean admitting that she had been a coward, and boy did her damned pride show for those things.

She’d let him go, sure that that hurt creature would wander around at night as he always did before returning to his den anyway, but an inner voice reminded her that it would be different that time. That time her brother wouldn’t come back.

So, in a darkness almost approaching dawn, Temari got up from a bed where she hadn’t been able to close her eyes anyway and, after putting on some clothes without paying attention, dashed to her car. She started to drive around the city, her eyes swollen with tears and exhaustion, her heart overflowing with guilt and fear. Fear that her brother’s frail body, unlike hers, would break and crumble, and she wouldn’t be there – she’d never truly been there – to pick up his shards and mend him.

She desperately drove around the hospitals, searching for a medical report, an answer, a confirm from doctors in white coats that they didn’t have anyone under their care, no injured boy that responded to the name of Gaara. She tried in some playgrounds and a few squares, but she didn’t obtain anything with her wandering, if not the nauseating realization that she actually didn’t know a damn thing about her brother.

Not that it was easy to crack the hermetic shell Gaara hid behind open, but she’d actually never even tried. It’d been too long since she gave up, pretending to forget the human being hidden behind that insurmountable wall rising above thorns for a sheer, foolish fear to hurt herself in the attempt to climb it.

And now she felt it was late, too late to remedy, too late to try and finally do something right. She wouldn’t have a second chance because that little-known brother wouldn’t have returned, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying despite the lack of hope, repelling the thought that she was on a useless search as much as she could. So she passed that cursed Tuesday bouncing uselessly like a pinball from one part to the other of the city and, just like a pinball rolled uncontrollably and only guided by the laws of physics, she wandered the same way, only guided by despair and guilt.

She only returned home at night, destroyed and reduced to a ghost of herself, so much that Kankuro was startled. He attempted to console her, an extraordinary event seeing his inclination to pretend that problems didn’t exist, but she refused his contact because it was unfair to receive human warmth and affection when Gaara was alone and injured god-knows-where because of the little love they’d shown him.

She heard from Kankuro that their father almost didn’t mention last night’s events, only stating that he didn’t want to know anything about that red-haired demon anymore and that he’d be more absent for his job from then on. Kankuro had told that in an expressionless and almost indifferent tone, maybe to conceal his pain or much more probably because he, unlike his sister, had moved on as always. For years, he’d resolved to only care about himself and build himself a life decent enough to be called that.

Those words, pronounced in that tone, went to dig in the girl’s already tormented heart: the awareness that she not only lost Gaara, but even the fact that their battered and unsteady family now reached the end of the line made her realize that she would experience solitude soon enough. After all those years, nothing but a handful of sand would remain in her fist.

The night didn’t bring good counsel but further anguish, and dawn had found Temari awake and tired again, worn out by being on standby, by waiting for a call from the police, for news of the recovery of Gaara’s corpse, and by expecting other horrible and catastrophic scenarios, so much that she couldn’t resist and that day she also drove around the city in search of something that resembled hope.

Exhaustion and little sleep got the upper hand nonetheless, to the point of forcing her to return mid-afternoon before risking fainting somewhere; she wanted to avoid that, at least. However, when she opened the door, her heart began beating fast. There was something strange in the air, so much that the skin of her arms crawled and her hair raised. She cautiously and silently went inside, hearing footsteps upstairs. She climbed up the stairs with trembling legs. The noise came from a room… Did someone perhaps hear her prayers and concede her a second chance?

She peeped through the semi-closed door and her heart skipped a beat.

“Gaara…” she whispered as she entered and forced herself to hold back her tears of relief. He was still alive and was in his own room!

The boy froze as if he received a lash instead of an anguished whisper. He wasn’t expecting to be found. Usually the house was empty at that hour, which was the only reason why he risked returning to collect some of his belongings before leaving again, like a ghost he’d always been.

“What do you want?” he asked in a harsh tone without looking at her to conceal the pain his sister’s unusually feeble voice caused him.

Temari could’ve reacted in thousands of different ways and say just as many things in that moment: get angry to see him acting like nothing happened, cry out the fear she felt in those days, burst into tears in front of his face with the despair of a little girl, or even pretend to be mature and hypocritically ask him how he was doing. A few days ago she could’ve probably easily done each of these things, but she was another Temari a few days ago, the one who still didn’t understand how much she missed Gaara and how much goddamn terror she felt at the idea of losing him forever, reaching the end of the line of every possibility to catch up.

And now Gaara was right in front of her instead, with his red hair, pale skin and face still marred by bruises. With a stupid pang in her heart she also noticed a few stitches, a sign that someone, somewhere, had taken care of Gaara, and that someone wasn’t her.

So she didn’t bite back, not even after hearing Gaara’s feigned insolence, deafened by a desperate wave of love that made her simply sprint towards her brother with only a few strides because they were truly close to each other now, and she embraced him without restrictions, fears and afterthoughts.

She hugged him tight, as if scared that someone would take him away or a shadow would swallow him and make him vanish. Gaara, breathless and paralyzed, remained with his stiff arms awkwardly blocked by that embrace full of warmth and love, flooded by the smell of Temari’s hair, of her skin, of the laundry like the way their mom could have done.

And for the first time, he didn’t push her away but sank in that contact instead, eager to drown in it. He couldn’t, _damn it_ , he just couldn’t hug her back. He felt selfish, but he believed to deserve that loving gesture just for himself without having to give her anything back. He shut his eyes to not see his room, to not feel anything else that wasn’t Temari.

She, on the other hand, didn’t want absolutely anything in turn, it was enough for her to have her brother alive between her arms. She felt Gaara’s protruding ribs, his body floating underneath unfamiliar clothes, his tense muscles, his straight spine, his lean neck slightly bending over. With her fingers, she attempted to memorize every corner of that young body, his every hidden scar, his smell of medicine, of cheap shampoo and of the streets.

She didn’t cry because there was no need to, she’d already wept enough for guilt, fear and despair. Now she had the possibility to start over and she would do it with all her might, in order to be able to feel that currently frail body grow one day and become a man: a man with a straight back, arms able to lift life’s problems and throw them far away, muscular legs of someone who climbed mountains of challenges and triumphantly reached their peak before viewing everyone from above, including his minuscule father who pettily thought that Gaara wouldn’t make it anyway.

Gaara remained in her embrace for an indefinite amount of time. It seemed hours and at the same time a few seconds to him. She’d never hugged him like that – nobody had – and he enjoyed it to the core, believing that it was only a moment for its own sake, not thinking about any kind of future. Then he gradually stepped back, distancing himself from the clamped embrace that had been beneficial for his heart but painful for the new injuries on his torso he received during last night’s match and that he stubbornly refused to allow Sasori to cure.

He slowly raised his gaze until he met his sister’s dark green eyes. He didn’t understand what enlivened them or what he should read in them, he only knew that they were different than before and that disoriented him. He didn’t know how to behave or what to say, he hadn’t expected that encounter.

“You’re… you’re okay, it seems,” he stammered, despite his sister’s face carried visible signs of exhaustion, but at least their father hadn’t got mad at her after his escape.

Temari hinted at a smile before replying, “Yeah, well, I guess I’m okay. And you? I mean… Someone has lent you a hand. I’m relieved, I was thinking about a lot of things, and…”

She paused, aware that she was talking like a motormouth, overwhelmed by things to say and thoughts she would like to translate into words. She fell silent before repeating more concisely, “How are you?” Implying that she understood that Gaara fortunately received help.

“I’m… I’m okay,” he stuttered with a bit of difficulty, eyeing his half-full schoolbag and feeling guilty for not having contacted her. He’d actually thought about it, but he didn’t believe his siblings would still want to have anything to do with him. He’d passed by their house to take a few things with the intention to disappear forever, and now the way she welcomed him made him feel remorseful and ungrateful.

“Kankuro?” he asked after a few seconds of absolute silence without looking at her.

“At uni,” Temari replied a bit vaguely, surprised by that question between genuine interest and hope that he wouldn’t have to meet him that day.

Several seconds passed in which Temari’s gaze wandered around Gaara’s spread out belongings, a half-full schoolbag and books abandoned on bookshelves. How stupid, her brother obviously didn’t return to stay.

“Where would you like to go and live now?” she asked out of the blue, poorly attempting to hide her need for Gaara to stay with her and for him not to exclude her from his life.

Gaara jumped at that greatly feared but inevitable question.

“I’ll be staying with some friends…” he answered vaguely and lied.

He could’ve defined the members of the Akatsuki in many ways, but definitely not friends. Yet Yahiko, after Gaara won last night’s match and surprised every spectator except Hidan, had offered him to stay there. He’d told him that if he didn’t have any other place to go, he could sleep there and fight for money, but he mustn’t bring trouble since he was a minor and must toe the line out of there. Gaara could do anything he wanted in their hideout and in the arena, fight and even kill if he desired, but in the outside world he had to be flawless before becoming an adult. The disappearance of a minor would attract too much attention and cause too much trouble, so he would have to keep going to school. Those were the necessary conditions to stay, and even Hidan had reluctantly agreed with Yahiko. Nobody wanted trouble or unnecessary attention. Gaara had then been forced to accept, albeit reluctantly since he apparently wasn’t entirely free yet.

Meanwhile, after that insincere answer, he turned his back to his sister, resuming to cram his things in his schoolbag.

“Don’t go, Gaara.” The way she pronounced his name wasn’t an order or a plea. It was a simple wish, expressed without too many superfluities or beating around the bush but full of meanings that carried just as many emotions.

He froze, staring at Temari instead of an anonymous canvas bag.

Why did he have to do this to her?

He found himself almost desperately gripping one of his t-shirts, unsure if he wanted to use it as an emergency parachute or rip it into a thousand pieces.

Then Temari talked again, this time coming up beside him, helping him folding his balled-up clothes, “Our” - what a struggle saying that word - “ _father_ , right, is on a business trip and won’t return for a few days. Also, it seems he wants to work himself to death, so… yeah, he’ll contaminate the environment less, let’s put it this way. You can go anywhere you want but this will always be your home. _I’ll_ be here, _Kankuro_ will be here and we’ll keep going together. _We_. I would like it if there started to be a ‘ _we’_ in our lives. Give me the possibility to help you finish that damned school and create your own future, yours and nobody else’s. It’s so goddamn hard to have you as my brother, but I realize I’ve been a coward. Forgive me.”

As she uttered this, she handed a textbook to him, randomly chosen among the many others Gaara would’ve left there, forgotten among the dust. Gaara silently grasped it, feeling its weight and its crispy smell since he still hadn’t found the chance to use it.

Then he raised his gaze towards Temari, struck by the idea that deep down, his sister didn’t want him to stay there for sheer selfishness but because she implored him a second chance. She wanted to be near him and conclude what she’d started.

He stared at her intensely like he’d never done before. He noticed how young she was, just three years older than him, yet she already had some frown lines on her forehead. Life hadn’t been kind to her either.

Sure, she rejoiced with him, but he wasn’t the only one who had suffered in that family and who had been deprived of maternal love but, entrenching himself behind his silent wall of selfishness built with bricks made of suffering, he’d never paused to reflect on that.

He slowly shifted his arm that felt hefty and stiff to him, marginally caressing the new and smooth cover of his book without a scratch or any sign of damage yet.

“Are you sure? Everything would be so much easier if I left now… As it should’ve been if I were never born…” he murmured in a trembling voice, confessing his most recurrent and hammering thought that he’d never expressed before. He’d thought about his own interests in his wish to disappear from her life, but he was also convinced that it would’ve been fair for Temari too.

“Silly,” Temari breathed before smiling. “If you weren’t here, who would I get mad at when you wander around alone at night?”

Even Gaara surprisingly smiled and Temari was grateful for it. A small victory after days of agony.

She made sure to reassure him, “I’ve never been so sure about something in my life. Whenever _he”_ – and they both knew who she was referring to – “comes back, you can go as far away as possible and I’ll be here to cover for you. Actually, I’m happy that you have another place to stay besides here.”

“I…” Gaara murmured strenuously, nibbling on his thin lips.

He wanted to thank her, tell her that he didn’t have to forgive her for anything and that he’d also been an asshole. He wanted to tell her many things, but nothing came out of his throat. No matter how much he forced himself to contract his vocal cords, those gentle words wouldn’t leave. After all, he wasn’t accustomed to kindness, he wasn’t used to experience it or give it to someone else. And Temari was truly considerate that day because that emotion came from her heart. She was showing him love and tolerance in her attempt to welcome him in that home and to not investigate on that part of his life beyond their house that Gaara didn’t want to share with her.

“What does Kankuro think?” he managed to ask instead, aware that his brother had always put up a much more aloof front than Temari.

Temari snorted, shaking her head before muttering, “Who even cares about Kankuro?” She sighed. “But anyway, he’s okay with it. I mean, he doesn’t stand out for his outgoing personality, but he isn’t an asshole and… he’d walked your same path. It’s just that he knows how to adapt and levels out with the rest of the world, so he moves on without issues. Instead, you unintentionally stand out from the others with your personality and manners, but everything will become easier one day. In the meantime, let’s stay together, all three of us, in our dysfunctional family. What do you say?”

Gaara shook his head and contemplated her, feeling an emotion he’d never experienced before. He felt that something wanted to overflow from his chest, and it was something warm and pleasant that made him feel good. Fighting also felt good, but the emotion he was feeling now was slightly different, more wonderful and reassuring. Was that the much praised and unknown familial love? Gaara didn’t know, but he knew that he didn’t feel like running away anymore and he wanted to face everything like how he’d confronted that guy in the arena last night. And if he encountered his father again, he would show him what he was made of as Hidan had suggested to him. As he thought of Hidan, it hit him that he probably had _two_ dysfunctional families and homes now, not bad for someone who had never possessed anything but themself.

“Let’s try,” he replied, smiling at his sister and brushing one of her rebellious locks away from her eyes. “Don’t consider yourself to have a nice personality though,” he teased.

 _Yes, fuck yes_. Temari succeeded. She seized Gaara, digging him up from an abyss where she didn’t think she would find him until yesterday. They were truly together now, and he wasn’t behind that damned wall anymore. She opened her arms to him, crumbling his barriers without breaking the entire enclosure down: passing through it was a privilege that was conceded to her and she was thankful for it.

She smiled as she listened to his words and agreed, “True, I’ve never said the opposite. We’re a nice trio of misfits.”

She snickered, eyeing that miserably impersonal room that seemed to belong to an already adult man due to the austere furniture, yet it seemed truly alive and full to her for the first time that day.

“You should hang some posters, write something on the walls or I don’t know, give it a touch of youth.”

Gaara glanced around him in turn as if noticing those walls for the first time. For a moment, he considered the idea of transforming his room like every person his age, but then he shrugged, knowing that it would never happen anyway. His transformation would be internal, and he wanted to hang entire bulletin boards with photos of his life, his achievements, his triumphs as much as his defeats inside him. And he obtained his first victory that night: Temari, with her grouchy manners, her hair styled in an absurd way, her straightforward words. Yes, he took a picture of his beautiful sister in his mind to remember her smile forever, lively even in the darkest moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheper’s notes (translated):  
> (19/04/2017)  
>  _Have you passed a nice Easter? Have you fed yourself properly? Our protagonists are passing a slightly worse time, but at least there’s a small glimmer of hope.  
>  We got to know the entire Akatsuki, or at least its main unit. We know it’s a bit different from that of the manga, several characters are missing and there are some side characters instead, but we planned everyone’s various roles and wickedly decided that it was more convenient this way. We hope Kisame’s absence won’t upset you too much XD Or Shisui’s presence won’t disturb you XD  
> You might’ve also noticed that some characters keep their canon hair and eye color like Sasori and Deidara while others like Nagato and Konan don’t. This is because we’ve set our story in the real world, in Japan, where the majority of the population has black hair and it seemed unreal to us that every member of the Akatsuki had dyed hair like Sasori or Suigetsu. Other characters are justified, like Gaara and Temari who have a foreign mother, while the reason for others will be disclosed in the upcoming chapters.  
> Gaara and Temari have finally found a meeting point from which they can start afresh and grow a true bond unlike a shadow of it like before. What will Kankuro do? Will he remain indifferent like he’d done until now or will he also decide to put himself out there? We’re afraid you have to stay with us if you want to know the answers XD  
> Today’s song is “21 Guns” by Green Day, a mix of desolation and hope that sets the mood for this chapter pretty well… That being said, there’s nothing for us to do if not say goodbye. Until next time!_


	9. Bitter Sweet Symphony

_I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me._   
_'Cause it’s a bitter sweet symphony, this life_   
_(The Verve)_

It was hot for a day in mid-May, but thanks to the air conditioning, one could stay comfortable and enjoy their drinks without being oppressed by the sultry weather.

Gaara couldn’t feel the heat though. Wrapped in the jacket of his school uniform, he gripped a cup of tea without being able to warm his gelid hands up. He imagined some ice cubes flowing in his veins and a nervous chuckle escaped his lips without being heard by anyone. He was anxious but he tried to face his obstacles with all his might without fleeing anymore.

The previous days had been packed with reflections and decisions. He’d talked a lot with his sister, who tried to make him understand that he could do whatever he wanted. He could go to a university to study something he liked, not necessarily law, or start working immediately after high school. In any case, he would have to exploit every occasion to the fullest.

This meant resuming Itachi’s lessons.

Studying with him to potentially establish some contacts with his family for his own future was truly an extraordinary opportunity that Gaara shouldn’t throw away. Their father had done one useful thing at least, Temari had commented with a laughter.

So, the boy had convinced himself to try again. His sister was right, there were only benefits for him by studying with that Uchiha; he would’ve been foolish for not taking advantage of it. And Gaara could be naïve but not stupid, especially now that he was experiencing the wild taste of freedom, which was only a small flavor of what he could obtain if he were able to stand on his own two feet in the future, although solid foundations were required.

That was why he’d sent a message to Itachi, with excuses that had seemed meagre to himself too, but he couldn’t have expressed himself in a better way. He’d expected a sharp refusal, Itachi had been clear after all: he hated wasting time. When he’d glimpsed that simple affirmative word lighting up on his display instead, he was astounded, and he’d promised himself to not waste his last opportunity since the Uchiha would definitely not concede him any others.

He’d arrived one hour earlier than appointed with the intention to demonstrate his good will and simultaneously give himself time to get acclimated, hoping that Itachi wouldn’t ask him questions about his face that was still worn-out by bruises and his stitches in full sight, convinced that Itachi wouldn’t have cared about it too much anyway. It was better this way, he would have to give fewer compromising explanations.

He’d set his notebook and a pen beside him, along with some textbooks that he’d chosen among the subjects he was relatively underachieving in and sat down at the table, drinking a beverage from time to time that he wished could be endless.

He then spotted Itachi entering – he could distinguish him from millions of people – with his long hair gathered in a ponytail, his lean body, his almost floating stride that couldn’t go unnoticed.

He wondered what Hidan would think of the Uchiha; Hidan who approached people impetuously, so different from the prudent Itachi.

Finally, after days in which incredibly too many things happened, Gaara and Itachi’s gaze returned to meet. And the latter felt almost suffocated and squeezed in that suddenly too narrow and annoyingly crowded café, aware that his student had anticipated him, preventing him from establishing his territory and being the one to observe instead of be observed.

Among his inner chaos, triggered by being caught off-guard by a kid, Itachi also felt a sort of satisfaction in ascertaining that Gaara was indeed there and that he’d decided to get something done in his life.

Prideful and cold, Itachi didn’t show anything of himself if not some frigid distance.

“You finally bothered to remember your commitment.”

Then he noticed Gaara’s face. He discerned the bruises that framed his eyes and a part of his visage, painted in a yellowish shade of a once purple ecchymosis; he spotted his stitches and his injured lips that were scarring, probably after being smashed like a bottle wielded by a drunkard.

He froze, just for a few instants, like someone who’d been hit by a sudden revelation with a bucket of cold water. If he’d been less prideful, more instinctive or even more normal, he would’ve stopped to ask Gaara what the hell happened to him and how he was doing. But he didn’t do it and sat down instead, immediately noticing books and papers of someone who was ready to take flight.

Gaara, if possible, stiffened even more at those words. He’d expected them yet they still hurt, and he felt an unrestrainable need to justify himself.

“I’m sorry for last week, there was a small setback…” he uttered quietly, calling himself stupid a second after talking.

Itachi definitely couldn’t care less about what had happened to him. The only thing that interested the Uchiha was how he was wasting his precious time. Gaara lowered his gaze and placed his almost empty cup on the table with his gelid hand and knuckles that were slowly healing.

“I also have a lot of setbacks, even _commitments_ , but as you can see, I respect appointments. Notify me next time.” Itachi interrupted himself, cold. “Actually, don’t even bother showing up next time. It mustn’t happen again.”

He regretted these words, shot like venom more to distance himself than for actual disappointment. He discerned Gaara’s gaze hardening, partly for vivid frustration, partly maybe for remorse, and he acknowledged that he’d exaggerated. He himself had decided to meet his student again, so he had to carry the awareness that he’d actually already forgiven Gaara’s impoliteness. Threatening him was completely useless but served to remind him of their respective positions.

Then he sighed with the desire to ask him who, among everyone in this shitty world, had dared to reduce him to that state.

But instead, the only thing he asked was banal and predictable, informing himself if Gaara had done his homework or gone to school, investigating his academic performance.

Gaara obediently replied, pushing back his twitch of rage and remorse after hearing those words oozing with irritation and possibly contempt. He didn’t understand why he felt so struck by him, his frigid behavior and his scornful words: they only met each other three times but Itachi was able to influence him so much! He got angry at himself and, as he diligently took notes, decided that he would’ve gone to fight that night. That night he would meet Hidan again, who strangely managed to calm him.

Itachi got to the heart of the lesson, leaving no more time for reflections and feelings. The session was only ruled by sterile equations and mathematical symbols that expressed nothing of the delicacy and complexity of the world or the human heart.

Only at the end, Gaara ventured to look at his teacher again and asked as he tidied his papers, “Shall we meet next week?” As he awaited a response, he pressed his injured lips without realizing it, so much that he squinted for a second due to the sudden pain.

And it was Itachi’s turn to catch Gaara off-guard that time.

“Depends.” He stared at Gaara so intensely to scare him. “Will you let yourself get beaten up again?”

The redhead stared back, slightly widening his eyes, feeling his stomach becoming lighter and his throbbing lips losing their importance.

As he balled his fists, he heard himself respond, unable to stay quiet, “No, not anymore.”

Itachi nodded. He glimpsed a rivulet of blood trickling down the ruby boy’s lips, so sparkling against his pale complexion. He instinctively wiped it with his thumb, feeling its warmth compared to the cold skin it was sliding down.

“Good. Don’t ever allow someone to hurt you.”

An advice dictated by experience. Itachi retracted his hand and, in a seemingly indifferent manner, wiped his thumb on his clothes, one of those that cost a fortune but didn’t mean absolutely anything.

Gaara, on the other hand, was petrified.

He’d watched that hand moving closer, unable to dodge it in time, or perhaps he didn’t want to be so fast? He’d felt the delicate but intense pressure of that fingertip against his own lips and thought that those skinny and elegant fingers concealed a lot of strength. Itachi could hurt him if we wanted to, but he’d been surprisingly delicate instead, like a butterfly’s flutter of wings.

Watching Itachi’s candid hand becoming soiled with his own blood disturbed him. He hypnotically stared at his tutor’s hand retracting and wiping on his immaculate clothing, spontaneous and casual gestures performed by the same hand that a few seconds prior had touched his face with identical nonchalance. And his blood was now on Itachi.

He felt disturbed, as if, like the ruby liquid that soiled the Uchiha’s suit, Gaara could somehow tarnish Itachi’s perfect life.

He despised his cursed blood so much and that he’d tried to purify it, obsessed with the idea that, if he’d succeeded, his hair wouldn’t be red anymore and he would become normal, with a normal life and a normal family; an obsession that had almost killed him and that his sister had saved him from but that hadn’t entirely disappeared from the recesses of his heart.

He felt his hands beginning to tremble and he couldn’t stop, nor divert his eyes from that stain, but he had to! He had to fight his most difficult battle: the one with himself. He had to regain control, he _had to_ if he really wanted to hope for a better future. So he lowered his eyelids for a few seconds and, with his heart beating hard and bumping into his ribcage, he hastily collected his own stuff, trying not to pay the Uchiha any mind and hoping that the latter hadn’t picked up on anything, even though he could feel Itachi’s eyes inspecting him and reading inside him every time they were together.

And indeed Itachi was even observing him attentively, interpreting the movements of those hands that were smaller but more robust than his own despite his student’s lean build, his face that was suddenly concentrated on truly insignificant things, his pale eyes that were settling on some ordinarily academic material instead of him. Gaara was fleeing without running, he realized this perfectly.

“Did I hurt you?”

Itachi asked on the edge of a subtle irony mixed with a concrete hypothesis that his touch could’ve actually injured him.

And in posing that question, Itachi intimately rethought about what it truly meant to cause harm; it had been so with Shisui that Saturday. That was the true irony: that pain could insinuate itself even in a loving gesture and ultimately pleasure so desperately that one required feeling it again.

Would Gaara ever feel that type of pain? And would he ever madly and fervently desire to feel it again? Now that Gaara was in front of him like that, exposed and defenseless in his own way, stiffened in his pride and turmoil, Itachi couldn’t comprehend him. But he had a premonition that somehow, pain was such an integral part of Gaara’s life that he wouldn’t leave him any way to get to know him, not with that kind of desire.

Ultimately, despite everything, his question displayed its effect.  
  
Gaara froze as if struck by lightning, because for him, that gesture and touch had been the complete opposite of harm, a harm he was the only one to know.

He bore his eyes into Itachi’s face, trying to decipher his words, but only found an unperturbed mask that he couldn’t break into. Apparently, that was a serious and earnest question, but for the little he’d known the Uchiha, he thought that a similar behavior was really unbefitting of his personality. Was it perhaps a joke? If so, Gaara couldn’t understand it, so he responded vaguely, “Not at all…”

He shrugged, rethinking about his father and the illegal matches.

Silence fell between the two. If they were different, they’d probably manage to move on from those meagre, shakily witty remarks and form a proper conversation, but they were themselves and at the moment both knew that they wouldn’t have exchanged any other words; there was no need to after all.

Gaara hurriedly gathered his belongings before excusing himself with a nod and a last glance at the Uchiha who was still sitting on his armchair like a king on his throne, and then he was outside, finally free to breathe without the weight of those dark eyes that incessantly studied him anymore.

He strode quickly, eager to move away from the bright sun, and as he mechanically stepped forward, he sent a message to Hidan. By then, after a little over a week, it could be said that he had become part of the Akatsuki’s well-oiled mechanism, even if only marginally: he participated in the illegal fights in the basement in exchange for some money and a place to stay whenever his father would be in the city.

Without even realizing it, Gaara had not only sent a message but even received a confirm from Hidan who invited him to show up at the bar’s entrance during the peak hours, when there still wouldn’t be too many people and they would have all the time to prepare themselves instead.

 _In fact_ , Gaara thought a few hours later, _who the hell would even enter a bar like that at seven in the evening?_

Silently observing, he leaned his back on the wall not too distant from the entrance, scrutinizing some solitary men entering with a shirt and a loosened tie, workers arriving at the end of the day who wanted to conclude it by getting nicely drunk.

From the end of the sidewalk, he spotted Hidan approaching him who eyed him a second before checking the time on his phone and commenting after bringing himself in front of him, “Hey, you’re annoyingly on time. Yahiko could even worship you.” He then raised a plastic bag. “You hungry?”

 _Indeed,_ Gaara thought, _I haven’t eaten since lunch_.

His stomach gurgled. The truth was that he hardly ever thought about food during the day, lucidly considering it a mere means to survive and nothing else.

“A bit,” he admitted.

“Nothing better than a second-rate takeaway then.”

Hidan entered the bar with his head high, the plastic bag that didn’t make him lose his air of superiority despite everything, his phone in his pocket and the demeanor of someone who was naturally dominating.

The door was left open while Gaara hesitated as if suddenly, once he crossed the threshold of Sliding Doors, it would swallow him.

Hidan turned around, impatiently stretching his arms.

“Well? You applying for a doorstop or something? Because I’m not interested in that.”

He almost said it in a murmur, despite everything.

Gaara moved swiftly, feeling almost foolish. No, he definitely didn’t want to be a doorstop. He wanted to be anything but motionless; he’d been almost too stuck in his life, himself, his obligations, his mistakes. It was time to cut it out.

“I’m ready.”

He told him breathlessly once the doors were shut, and the bar’s darkness enveloped him in one fell swoop.

Hidan smirked with his slightly crooked grin, his almost predatory eyes, his nose as straight as that of a Greek sculpture.

“The others are the ones who’re not. You’ll fuck everyone up tonight, those bastards.”

He exploded with a wild and natural laughter that Gaara liked because now that the latter thought about it, he’d never heard anyone truly laugh.

They entered the back door, the area reserved for the Akatsuki, and it was weird for Gaara seeing those places again as an accomplice and not as a victim. He felt like another person, a more aware and mature one.

It was almost with a sort of happiness mixed with euphoria that he ate in their modest kitchen that night, listening to Hidan boasting about a reached agreement, watching him eat in turn, hearing footsteps of who entered and who left, giving him the impression of being a true part of that place for the first time.

And Hidan, who spoke to cover Gaara’s silences, was meanwhile observing that puny kid who wrestled like a savage and who was now swallowing his food mechanically as if he was forced to or he would collapse and he couldn’t allow himself that. He then waited for Gaara to finish before pulling out what he’d bought that day other than a dull takeaway from the shopping bag: a pair of biker gloves, the fingerless ones with leather hems and an ergonomic grip.

He threw them on the table, right in front of Gaara.

“Take them, they’re yours.”

The boy contemplated them for several seconds before raising his gaze and observing Hidan, then back to his gloves again, frowning. Watching this as an outsider could seem almost comical if it weren’t for Gaara’s mortally serious expression.

“Thanks…” he mumbled a bit uncertainly, venturing to touch the package skittishly, almost as if it were a curled-up cobra waiting to bite him. “But I don’t have a bike.” He really couldn’t understand why Hidan was giving those to him!

“Something I wouldn’t give a fuck about anyway,” Hidan retorted impatiently before explaining as he leaned on his chair’s backrest, “They’re for your knuckles, egghead. You won’t hurt yourself punching with these. _You’re_ happy and _people_ are happy because they won’t notice a thing, and you know what happy people do? Mind their own fucking business.”

That was actually a wonderful and real excuse, but Hidan had felt the need to give those gloves to Gaara. Because _fuck it_ , that boy was pretty messed up already, he really didn’t need to shatter his hands because of something Hidan himself had involved him in.

It was a clumsy and cloddish gesture of care, and Gaara understood it perfectly, beyond Hidan’s profanity and grouchy manners, so much that he quickly opened the package and tried the gloves on. They fit him to a T, apparently Hidan remembered the size of his hands.

Gaara felt elated for that unexpected and tremendously thoughtful gesture from a person who shouldn’t have cared anything about him. His lips slowly parted to a sincere smile that reflected exactly how he felt inside.

“Thank you again then, I really haven’t thought about it,” he replied without exaggerating, not used to display affection and sure that Hidan wouldn’t have appreciated it anyway. “They suit me perfectly, see?” he added, raising his hands in front of him.

Hidan contemplated them for a moment before replying, “Yeah, perfectly.”

He then bit his lip, slightly turning his head before returning to observe Gaara and catch him by surprise with his hands still raised and giving him a high five.

“Now that I freshened you up, you need to beat the shit out of the fucker you’ll fight against. Otherwise I’ll get pissed off and go punch you directly on the ring, are we clear?”

He said that with an awareness that it would never happen. Gaara would make his opponent regret being born; it was this, his uncontrollable rage and the loss of control in a seemingly calm and aloof creature that have impressed Hidan. The real Gaara was a messed-up man, not a shy boy.

They continued to talk about unimportant things.

Gaara felt more and more at ease with Hidan, away from the annoying sense of inadequacy felt a few hours ago under Itachi’s accusing eyes. Even when Deidara joined them, Gaara managed to talk with him. Nothing too friendly or courteous, but it was still a form of contact, a way to connect that he was experiencing for the first time, and it was fine that way.

***

The narrow and crumbling corridor without windows or openings welcomed the world’s odors in its cramped space: smell of stale, of people, of their sweat and blood. It was like passing through a market, except without stands and food. The walls and the floor hundreds of people stepped on exposed the commodities of a humanity that passed day after day, leaving a disgustingly corporeal part of itself like smell.

Gaara, who hardly tolerated people, was nauseatingly intoxicated by it, and treading that corridor before going down the stairs was something like a descent to hell for him. He felt his stomach in knots, tightened in a sort of twinge that even stopped him from gulping, because that was the first time he perceived his surroundings cold-bloodedly: he discerned the cage, a magnetic hearth able to gather a shapeless crowd, and people he brushed past, wrapped in the semi-shadow and intent on watching him, trying to figure out if their bets would make them some cash. He felt squeezed among those sweaty bodies, submerged in a stink of alcohol and smoke, but he didn’t care, all things considered; he’d already arrived and the arena was there, the sand similar to a giant whirlpool that collected blood, the bitterness of losing, the tragedy of death and the celebration of victory.

He felt tension growing in his every fiber at that moment, a tension that had little to do with fear: it was more like a feeling of anticipation mixed with a nervous euphoria, amalgamated with a sense of confusion that would always invade him in that basement.

In a matter of minutes and without even realizing it, the match started. There weren’t respectful bows to the opponent, nor tallies or protocols to follow: once he met his gaze with that of his opponent, it was a matter of survival. Gaara then felt finally alive. His eyes only captured the agile body in front of him, and everything else lost its meaning: sharp smells, suffused colors, shouting… Everything disappeared. The only things remaining were him – becoming one with his monster –, his opponent, and the ring’s almost otherworldly light.

Then he started to hear punches, those that were made to kill: he almost heard the sound of his bones clashing against his skin, his flesh, his opponent’s muscles; he perceived the coated sweat on the chest he was now striking against, his unguarded face, the hair on his arms pressed by the heat and mugginess. He felt his nerves stretching when he struck a punch, with his opponent poorly attempting to guard before feeling the inevitable razor-sharp pain in the striking point, the explosion in his ribs, his kidneys, the moment when he failed to understand who he was facing against.

He was breathless and his sight struggled to make its way through his almost strained eyelashes, but his instinct of survival always had the upper hand, guided by a primordial need to prevail and release everything he’d swallowed in those years. Gaara was that ring, that carpet of sand, that vortex that had collected his every monstrosity. But he wasn’t sand, he was flesh and pain, and he spit it back like a maelstrom: that night, like other nights, he wrestled. And his malevolence, like everything that surrounded that ring, lost its importance in turn: Gaara thrashed blindly, deafly, insensitively and even animalistically. He thrashed what was in front of him as if he had to make every single atom that composed his opponent vanish.

He disintegrated without interest or cognition and arrived at the end when his ears buzzed to finally return to hear again, hear the crowd that burst into cheers, the laments of who he’d almost beaten to death, his own labored breathing. Finally, his sight returned to open on a satisfied audience that crowded around the show, into a dark room that seemed to squeeze them all, and lastly on his opponent lying on the ground, covered in sand and blood.

Then, exhausted and lucid again, he peered at his hands and couldn’t recognize them. But the black gloves were there, capable of reminding him that at the end of a day, even in a night like this, he’d managed to demonstrate to know how to live and someone who cared about his success existed.

However, there weren’t only Hidan’s interested eyes that have observed him that night.

Juugo had followed the match with absolute concentration, which was unusual for him, who sometimes almost didn’t even bother to examine his own opponents. Only a few survived after all.

Instead, the gossips about that boy had piqued his curiosity, and with a growing surprise, he’d noticed the raw and purely instinctive manner Gaara fought with, the violence that increased as he transformed and left his place to his dark side, a transformation Juugo knew too well; he could recognize all its signs. The confusion when Gaara returned to be himself was one of those, and Juugo could distinctly read it in those pale eyes that were glancing around him frenetically, almost not recognizing the place he found himself in.

Gaara was then approached by Yahiko and Hidan. The crowd applauded him and Juugo silently walked away, pensive.

Gaara was tossed about by people who wanted to congratulate him for letting them win a bunch of money, and even Kakuzu gave him a satisfied pat on the shoulders. They all earned plenty thanks to Gaara. After all, who would’ve ever placed their bet on a frail guy like him? The boy looked at everyone as if they were ghosts, on the verge of collapsing now that all his physical and mental energy had been drained during the match.

Hidan noticed it. He hadn’t ever lost sight of him after all, telling himself that he had to look out for that small golden goose. It was his responsibility, and in a way or another he wanted to come to terms with his own grouchy conscience, or at least with what remained of it. Pushing and swearing his way through the crowd, he approached Gaara and conducted him to Sasori’s infirmary without a word, who was already waiting for them there as if he’d read his colleague’s mind.

Gaara obviously scowled when he met Sasori again. He didn’t like doctors, least of all the one with red hair so similar to his own and a face that was too young to be an actual doctor.

“I’m fine, just a little tired,” he stated, straightening his back for good, not caring about the pain in various parts of his body.

Hidan almost halted in front of Gaara before angrily retorting, “Quit bullshitting, you got some pretty bad blows. You’re not Superman so don’t be a pain in the ass and get yourself checked.”

Sasori, who’d been silent until then, did not wait for an additional reply from Gaara, nor Hidan’s irascible explosion. He constrained himself to subtly brush against the latter’s chest, not even looking at him in the eyes as he observed the tools that could be useful to him and just ordered, “Hidan, now leave.”

“The fuck do you mean?”

“Exactly what I’ve said. Get lost.” Sasori rolled up his sleeves. “And close the door behind you.”

The tone of his voice became harsh and even threatening.

Hidan was a lot of things: violent, a generator of profanity and even rough at times, but not stupid. All in all, he could understand Sasori behind his veil of silences and traces of words, so what had now transformed into a command sent Hidan thousands of nuances that ordered him to follow what they implied in a literal sense.

“Ah…” he muttered, slightly raising an arm. “Alright, fuck it. If you need anything, I’m in the living room with the company of a couch and a beer. Fuck it,” he repeated as if talking to himself, and he surprisingly shut the door behind him too.

Sasori finally returned his gaze on Gaara, only on him.

“We can talk.”

Gaara scowled at him even surlier and more defensively than before. What could that ethereal doctor with dull and inexpressive eyes, so much that his face seemed a mask, unequipped with muscles that could make him smile, scowl or acquire any other expression ever want to talk about?

“About what?” Gaara asked flatly, feeling apprehension snaking down his spine and making the hair on his arms rise.

Sasori stared at him for another moment, motionless like a statue. Then he clicked his tongue and began, “Do you really believe that something that slips away from my eyes exists? Do you really think you have secrets with me? I know everything about you, from the way you walk to how you stand. I know where you’re aching, how trained your muscles are and how elastic your tendons are, I know that when you walk, you always start with your right foot. I even know how much hair you have in your ass.” The first vulgar word Gaara had ever heard him pronounce and that sounded much more menacing than the thousands expressed by Hidan.

“So, do you really think I don’t know what you’re uselessly trying to hide? Do you really believe I haven’t noticed the scars on your chest? But more importantly, do you think I actually care? You’re talented and the Akatsuki has decided to seriously count on you so my job is to keep you efficient and in shape, but don’t make me waste any more time now, I have much more important things than you to tend to. Come here, take off your shirt and let me heal you, otherwise go and die, but away from here,” he concluded in a low, monotonous and horrifying tone.

Those words had in fact chilled Gaara’s bones, who perhaps for the first time realized what it meant to fear someone and what effect he must’ve had on other normal people. As the doctor proceeded, he felt his skin crawl, terror clenching his bowels, his heartbeat accelerating and an acrid taste invading his mouth. He felt more stricken at that moment than when he was in the arena, and he felt paralyzed. His panicked mind was frenetically thrashing around like a crazy bird in its cage and it couldn’t send any signals to his muscles, it was only contorting itself in a seemingly endless spiral.

He only moved at Sasori’s dry command. Like a puppet moved by invisible strings, he stiffly approached the doctor’s couch, removed his shirt and exposed his tortured body to a stranger’s eyes for the first time in his life.

“You won’t tell anyone?” he managed to prompt, feeling Sasori’s cold hands touching him, gritting his teeth to dominate the impulse of dodging the doctor.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me right, but I don’t care anything about you, apart from keeping you in good health until Yahiko decides otherwise. Spare your breath and your silly questions for your nanny, you don’t need to talk to me.”

After stating that, a surreal silence fell on the room as if a big switch for the world’s noises existed and someone decided to turn it off.

Half an hour later, a well-treated Gaara without stitches on his pasty face anymore entered the living room where Hidan was drinking beer while watching a sport match on TV, waiting for him. The latter observed him walking stiffly, ashen and with a blank gaze. When Gaara sat beside him, he didn’t even sink one centimeter into the soft sofa for how light he was. The redhead continued to stay silent, not uttering a single word but staying beside Hidan, shoulder to shoulder, and stretched a hand to grab his beer, chugging a prolonged sip of it.

His first beer, another first time of a long list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheper’s notes (translated):  
> (05/05/2017)  
>  _We’re back again, this time with Gaara and his meeting with Itachi. Have you imagined it going differently, has it disappointed you? In the end we have described Itachi as a very cold and aloof person. He doesn’t feel attachment for anything beyond the few things he deems important, and even for these he feels a sort of relative detachment.  
>  And what will Gaara’s obsession with his own blood ever be about? Don’t forget it but keep it in mind for the future.  
> Gaara and Hidan, absurd right? Yet we believe that they function so goddamn well together. At the moment Hidan is a sort of reference point, something very important for Gaara who has never had one, except for Temari but only relatively.  
> Gaara continues with his fights, which he needs to not only earn money but also placate his inner monster, fueled by a rage and spite the world had dumped on him and that always threatens to overwhelm him. And then Sasori with his sharp eyes… Gaara has scars, what do you think could’ve happened to him?  
> Today’s song is kindly offered by The Verve, a very famous British band at the end of the 90’s.  
> Let us know what you think, we won’t get mad even if you tell us the story sucks XD We’re also open to criticism._
> 
> betta_100’s notes:  
> (06/03/2021)  
> Thanks for reading as always! Hope you enjoyed it :)


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